"I will not come in," said Kelly, with a certain painful beery assumption of dignity. He balanced himself a moment, steadied by his neighbors; and then, to the delight of the room, began, with the utmost gravity, one of his inimitable imitations of the lords that sit enthroned in the faculty.
"I come, not to stultify myself in the fumes of liquor, but to do you good. Beer is brutalizing. With your kind permission, I will whistle you a few verses of a noble poem on same subject."
"'I COME NOT TO STULTIFY MYSELF IN THE FUMES OF LIQUOR, BUT TO DO YOU GOOD'"—Page 89.
"Whistle, Tom?"
"The word was whistle," said Kelly sternly. Extending his arm for silence, he proceeded, with great intensity and concentrated facial expression, to whistle a sort of improvisation. Then, suddenly ceasing, he continued:
"And what does this beautiful, ennobling little thing teach us, written by a great mind, one of the greatest, greatest minds—what does it teach us?"
"Well, what does it teach?" said one or two voices, after Kelly had preserved a statuesque pose beyond the limits of their curiosity.
"Ask me," said Kelly, with dignity.