We got there early. Nearly all the old "Peloton" lot were to meet there that evening. The large room at the back had been put at our disposal.
Punch was served to everyone. Toasts were drunk half as a rag. There was a tap-room atmosphere. Everyone was in uproarious spirits—feverish with the excitement of the departure which was so close at hand. A school-master named Groningaire started off with a song—he had a good voice—then some patriotic verses, while we sang the refrain in chorus.
Miquel went to the piano.
"Go it! Play us something!"
He was known to be a performer.
"What style do you want?"
"Oh, anything! Improvise something!"
"The 'Battle,' g-r-r-r-r-r and symphony!"
There was a general laugh. He sat down on the music stool.
"First part. Four o'clock in the morning."