Besides the original Wright family, consisting of father, mother, Robin, and Madge, there were assembled uncle Rik, Sam Shipton, Mrs Langley, Letta, and—no—not Jim Slagg. The circle was unavoidably incomplete, for Jim had a mother, and Jim had said with indignant emphasis, “did they suppose all the teas an’ dinners an’ suppers, to say nothin’ o’ breakfasts, an’ mess-mates an’ chums an’ friends, crammed and jammed into one enormous mass temptation, would indooce him to delay his return to that old lady for the smallest fraction of an hour?” No, Jim Slagg was not at the table, but the household cat was under it, and the demoralising attentions that creature received on that occasion went far to undo the careful training of previous years.
The occasion of the gathering was not simple. It was compound. First, it was in commemoration of Robin’s birthday; second, it was to celebrate the appointment of Sam Shipton to an influential position on the electrical staff of the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company, and Sam’s engagement to Marjory Mayland; third, to celebrate the appointment of Robin Wright to a sufficiently lucrative and hopeful post under Sam; and, lastly, to enjoy the passing hour.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said uncle Rik, getting on his feet with some difficulty, when the tea, toast, muffins, eggs, and other fare had blunted the appetites, “I rise to propose the toast of the evening, and mark you, I don’t mean to use any butter with this toast,” (Hear, from Sam), “unless I’m egged on,” (Oh!), “to do it—so I charge you to charge your cups with tea, since we’re not allowed grog in this tee-total ship—though I’m free to confess that I go in with you there, for I’ve long since given, up the use o’ that pernicious though pleasant beverage, takin’ it always neat, now, in the form of cold water, varied occasionally with hot tea and coffee. My toast, ladies and gentlemen, is Rob—” (Rik put his hand to his throat to ease off his necktie), “is Robin Wright, whom I’ve known, off an’ on, as a babby, boy, an’ man, almost ever since that night—now twenty years ago, more or less—when he was launched upon the sea in thunder, lightning, and in rain. I’ve known him, I say—ever since—off an’ on—and I’m bound to say that—”
The captain paused. He had meant to be funny, but the occasion proved too much for him.
“Bless you, Robin, my lad,” he gasped, suddenly stretching his large hand across the table and grasping that of his nephew, which was quickly extended. After shaking it with intense vigour he sat promptly down and blew his nose.
The thunders of applause which burst from Sam and Mr Wright were joined in even by the ladies, who, in the excess of their sympathy, made use of knife-handles and spoons with such manly vigour that several pieces of crockery went “by the board,” as the captain himself remarked, and the household cat became positively electrified and negatively mad,—inasmuch as it was repelled by the horrors around, and denied itself the remaining pleasure of the tea-table by flying wildly from the room.
Of course, Robin attempted a reply, but was equally unsuccessful in expressing his real sentiments, or the true state of his feelings, but uncle Rik came to the rescue by turning sharply on Sam and demanding—
“Do you really mean to tell me, sir, that, after all your experience, you still believe in telegraphs and steamboats?”
Sam promptly asserted that he really did mean that.
“Of course,” returned the captain, “you can’t help believing in their existence—for facts are facts—but are you so soft, so unphilosophical, so idiotical as to believe in their continuance? That’s the point, lad—their continuance. Are you not aware that, in course o’ time, rust they must—”