“Yes,” resumed Queeker, suddenly blazing up with enthusiasm, “I repeat—the ladies—”
“That’s the girls, blissin’s on the swate darlints,” murmured Jerry in a tone which set the whole table again in a roar.
“I echo the sentiment; blessings on them,” said Queeker, with a good-humoured glance at Jerry. “Yes, as I was going to say, I propose the Ladies, who are, always were, and ever will be, the solace of man’s life, the sweet drops in his otherwise bitter cup, the lights in his otherwise dark dwelling, the jewels in his—in his—crown, and the bright stars that glitter in the otherwise dark firmament of his destiny (vociferous cheering). Yes,” continued Queeker, waxing more and more energetic, and striking the table with his fist, whereby he overturned his neighbour’s glass of grog, “yes, I re-assert it—the ladies are all that, and much more! (Hear, hear.) I propose their health—and, after all, I may be said to have some sort of claim to do so, having already unintentionally poured a whole bottle of wine on the tablecloth as a libation to them! (Laughter and applause.) What, I ask,” continued Queeker, raising his voice and hand at the same moment, and setting his hair straight upon end, “what, I ask, would man be without the ladies?” (“What indeed?” said a voice near the foot of the table, which called forth another burst of laughter.) “Just try to think, my friends, what would be the hideous gloom of this terrestrial ball if there were no girls! Oh woman! softener of man’s rugged nature! What—in the words of the poet.” He carefully refrained from saying what poet!
“What were earth and all its joys;
what were wealth with all its toys;
what the life of men and boys
But for lovely woman?
“What if mothers were no more;
If wives and sisters fled our shore,
And left no sweethearts to the fore—
No sign of darling woman?
“What dreary darkness would ensue—
what moral wastes devoid of dew—
If no strong hearts of men like you
Beat for charming woman?
“Who would rise at duty’s call;
Who would fight to win or fall;
Who would care to live at all,
Were it not for woman?”
Prolonged and rapturous cheers greeted this effusion, in the midst of which the enthusiastic Jerry MacGowl sprang to his feet, waved his glass above his head—spilling half of its contents on the pate of a bald skipper who sat next to him—and cheered lustily.
“Men of the Ramsgate lifeboat,” shouted Queeker, “I call on you to pledge the ladies—with all the honours!”
It is unnecessary to say that the call was responded to with a degree of enthusiasm that threatened, as Dick Moy said to Jack Shales, “to smash all the glasses an’ blow the roof off.” In the midst of the noise and confusion Queeker left the hall, ascended to the gallery, and sat himself down beside Fanny Hennings, with an air of intense decision.
“Oh, Mr Queeker!” exclaimed Fanny.
“Listen, Fanny,” said the tall uncle at that moment, “they are giving one of the most important toasts of the evening—The Royal National Lifeboat Institution.”
Fanny tried to listen, and had caught a few words, when she felt her hand suddenly seized and held fast. Turning her head quickly, she beheld the face of Queeker turned to bright scarlet.