“Certainly, certainly!” the Baron eagerly assented. “It would never do to keep dinner waiting!” And he almost trotted out of the room after the Vice-Warden.
He was back again so speedily that the Vice-warden had barely time to explain to my Lady that her remark about “a love for pastry” was “unfortunate. You might have seen, with half an eye,” he added, “that that's his line. Military genius, indeed! Pooh!”
“Dinner ready yet?” the Baron enquired, as he hurried into the room.
“Will be in a few minutes,” the Vice-Warden replied. “Meanwhile, let's take a turn in the garden. You were telling me,” he continued, as the trio left the house, “something about a great battle in which you had the command of the infantry—”
“True,” said the Baron. “The enemy, as I was saying, far outnumbered us: but I marched my men right into the middle of—what's that?” the Military Hero exclaimed in agitated tones, drawing back behind the Vice-Warden, as a strange creature rushed wildly upon them, brandishing a spade.
“It's only the Gardener!” the Vice-Warden replied in an encouraging tone. “Quite harmless, I assure you. Hark, he's singing! Its his favorite amusement.”
And once more those shrill discordant tones rang out:—
“He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus:
'If this should stay to dine,' he said,
'There won't be mutch for us!'”
Throwing away the spade, he broke into a frantic jig, snapping his fingers, and repeating, again and again,
“There won't be much for us!
There won't be much for us!”