The Archers all stood up as their cups were filled to drink the health of their chief with a universal cheer. But at the moment that the cups were at their lips, and as Archer bowed to thank the company, a sudden shower from above astonished the whole assembly. They looked up, and beheld the rose of a watering-engine, whose long neck appeared through a trap door in the ceiling. “Your good health, Mr. Manager!” said a voice, which was known to be the gardener’s; and in the midst of their surprise and dismay the candles were suddenly extinguished; the trap-door shut down; and they were left in utter darkness.
“The Devil!” said Archer.
“Don’t swear, Mr. Manager,” said the same voice from the ceiling, “I hear every word you say.”
“Mercy upon us!” exclaimed Fisher. “The clock,” added he, whispering, “must have been wrong, for it had not done striking when we began. Only, you remember, Archer, it had just done before you had done locking your door.”
“Hold your tongue, blockhead!” said Archer. “Well, boys! were ye never in the dark before? You are not afraid of a shower of rain, I hope. Is anybody drowned?”
“No,” said they, with a faint laugh, “but what shall we do here in the dark all night long, and all day to-morrow? We can’t unbar the shutters.”
“It’s a wonder nobody ever thought of the trap-door!” said Townsend.
The trap-door had indeed escaped the manager’s observation. As the house was new to him, and the ceiling being newly white-washed, the opening was scarcely perceptible. Vexed to be out-generalled, and still more vexed to have it remarked, Archer poured forth a volley of incoherent exclamations and reproaches against those who were thus so soon discouraged by a trifle; and groping for the tinder-box, he asked if anything could be easier than to strike a light again. [262] The light appeared. But at the moment that it made the tinder-box visible, another shower from above, aimed, and aimed exactly, at the tinder-box, drenched it with water, and rendered it totally unfit for further service. Archer in a fury dashed it to the ground. And now for the first time he felt what it was to be the unsuccessful head of a party. He heard in his turn the murmurs of a discontented, changeable populace; and recollecting all his bars and bolts, and ingenious contrivances, he was more provoked at their blaming him for this one only oversight than he was grieved at the disaster itself.
“Oh, my hair is all wet!” cried one, dolefully.
“Wring it, then,” said Archer.