The long expected moment at length arrived. De Grey and his friends, unconscious of what was going forward, walked out of the schoolroom as usual at bedtime. The clock began to strike nine. There was one Greybeard left in the room, who was packing up some of his books, which had been left about by accident. It is impossible to describe the impatience with which he was watched, especially by Fisher, and the nine who depended upon the gipsy oracle.
When he had got all his books together under his arm, he let one of them fall; and whilst he stooped to pick it up, Archer gave the signal. The doors were shut, locked, and double-locked in an instant. A light was struck and each ran to his post. The bars were all in the same moment put up to the windows, and Archer, when he had tried them all, and seen that they were secure, gave a loud “Huzza!”—in which he was joined by all the party most manfully—by all but the poor Greybeard, who, the picture of astonishment, stood stock still in the midst of them with his books under his arm; at which spectacle Townsend, who enjoyed the frolic of the fray more than anything else, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. “So, my little Greybeard,” said he, holding a candle full in his eyes, “what think you of all this?—How came you amongst the wicked ones?”
“I don’t know, indeed,” said the little boy, very gravely: “you shut me up amongst you. Won’t you let me out?”
“Let you out! No, no, my little Greybeard,” said Archer, catching hold of him, and dragging him to the window bars. “Look ye here—touch these—put your hand to them—pull, push, kick—put a little spirit into it, man—kick like an Archer, if you can; away with ye. It’s a pity that the king of the Greybeards is not here to admire me. I should like to show him our fortifications. But come, my merry men all, now to the feast. Out with the table into the middle of the room. Good cheer, my jolly Archers! I’m your manager!”
Townsend, delighted with the bustle, rubbed his hands, and capered about the room, whilst the preparations for the feast were hurried forward. “Four candles!—Four candles on the table. Let’s have things in style when we are about it, Mr. Manager,” cried Townsend. “Places!—Places! There’s nothing like a fair scramble, my boys. Let everyone take care of himself. Hallo! Greybeard, I’ve knocked Greybeard down here in the scuffle. Get up again, my lad, and see a little life.”
“No, no,” cried Fisher, “he sha’n’t sup with us.”
“No, no,” cried the manager, “he shan’t live with us; a Greybeard is not fit company for Archers.”
“No, no,” cried Townsend, “evil communication corrupts good manners.”
So with one unanimous hiss they hunted the poor little gentle boy into a corner; and having pent him up with benches, Fisher opened his books for him, which he thought the greatest mortification, and set up a candle beside him—“There, now he looks like a Greybeard as he is!” cried they. “Tell me what’s the Latin for cold roast beef?” said Fisher, exultingly, and they returned to their feast.
Long and loud they revelled. They had a few bottles of cider. “Give me the corkscrew, the cider sha’n’t be kept till it’s sour,” cried Townsend, in answer to the manager, who, when he beheld the provisions vanishing with surprising rapidity, began to fear for the morrow. “Hang to-morrow!” cried Townsend, “let Greybeards think of to-morrow; Mr. Manager, here’s your good health.”