“My hand’s cut with your broken glass,” cried another.
“Glass!” cried a third; “mercy! is there broken glass? and it’s all about, I suppose, amongst the supper; and I had but one bit of bread all the time.”
“Bread!” cried Archer; “eat if you want it. Here’s a piece here, and no glass near it.”
“It’s all wet, and I don’t like dry bread by itself; that’s no feast.”
“Heigh-day! What, nothing but moaning and grumbling! If these are the joys of a Barring Out,” cried Townsend, “I’d rather be snug in my bed. I expected that we should have sat up till twelve o’clock, talking, and laughing, and singing.”
“So you may still; what hinders you?” said Archer. “Sing, and we’ll join you, and I should be glad those fellows overhead heard us singing. Begin, Townsend—
“‘Come now, all ye social Powers,
Spread your influence o’er us’—
Or else—
“‘Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never will be slaves.’”
Nothing can be more melancholy than forced merriment. In vain they roared in chorus. In vain they tried to appear gay. It would not do. The voices died away, and dropped off one by one. They had each provided himself with a great-coat to sleep upon; but now, in the dark, there was a peevish scrambling contest for the coats, and half the company, in very bad humour, stretched themselves upon the benches for the night.