Saying this, to the surprise of Robin, Sam rose, went forward to the table, and asked permission to make a few remarks.
“Who is he?—what? eh!” exclaimed the chairman. “Turn him out,” cried one. “Sit down,” cried another. “No, no, let him speak,” cried a third. “Don’t you know it is Samuel Shipton, the great electrician?”
“Bravo! go on! speak out!” cried several voices, accompanied by loud applause.
“Gentlemen,” began Sam in his softest voice, “I regard this as one of the greatest occasions of—of—my life,” (Hear! hear! from a fussy guest; and Hush! hush! and then we shall hear here better, from an angry one). “I little thought,” continued Sam, warming apparently with his subject—or the heat, “little thought that on this great occasion I could—could—I could—” (would or should; go on, man, from an impatient guest).
“Oh, Sam, don’t stick!” cried Robin, in an agony of anxiety.
“Who’s that? Put him out!” chorused several voices indignantly.
“There, sir, you’ve put your foot in it at last,” said the lugubrious waiter.
Robin thought he referred to the interruption, but the waiter’s eyes and forefinger directed his attention to the soup tureen, which, in his eagerness, he had sacrificed with a stamp. Finding that no further notice was taken of the interruption, he listened, while Sam continued:—
“Yes, gentlemen, I have some difficulty in starting, but, once set agoing, gentlemen, I can keep on like an alarum clock. What nonsense have some of you fellows been talking! Some of you have remarked that you shall be able to exchange messages with England in a few hours. Allow me to assure you that before long you will accomplish that feat in a few minutes.”
“Pooh! pooh!” ejaculated an irascible old gentleman with a bald head.