"I'm somewhat embarrassed, Jim, to appear so tardy," I began, "I had about decided to deny myself the honor and pleasure of the event. You see, my friends are all togged out in their pigeon-tails, while—just look at me."
"Why, Mistah 'Tagras, shuah dey will be glad to—"
"Yes, yes, I know they would be more pleased to see me in my odd regulation clothes; but no, not this time, Jim; close your scuttle—mum's the word. Just let me eat in this snug corner where I can hear the strains of the orchestra, out of reach of their stale jokes. Fetch on the viands." As I concluded I pressed a coin into the mahogany hand, and took from my coat a button containing Mac's and Pod's photo, and gave it to the delighted darkey.
There was novelty in this strange situation. It was the only feast I remembered ever having attended uninvited.
Across the spacious hall, obscured by Japanese screens, sat the garrulous banqueters, blissfully ignorant of my presence, while I, a famished and jaded nomad, sat comfortably drinking in the liquid music of the serenade and inflating my gastronomical pipes with terrapin, squab, robin's eggs, salads and other dainties galore.
Presently I was served with something more mellifluous than music, as Jim appeared with a bottle of that familiar sparkling liquid, which is proverbially wrapped in cobwebs and frost, in a pail of ice, and said: "Believe yo' sayed Mumm, Sah—be dis yo' taste, Mistah 'Tagras?" My eyes eloquently expressed my sentiments. Oh, what a nerve tissue a donkey journey does create! As I quaffed the soul-stirring nectar, I thought of Mac A'Rony—how he would have relished a quart of that sterling brand!—and then poured a bumper for him and drank it to his very good health.
When I had finished, I called the waiter and said, with visible effort: "Jim, I wish—hic—you would tell th' bandmaster (here Jim poked a napkin into his mouth), that a tardy guest—hic—heartily requests the pat—patriotic—hic tune Macaroni's come to town. Go, Jim, that's a good girl." And Jim went.
That waiter was the cleverest darkey I ever came across. We all well know that one trait of a thoroughbred darkey is the faculty for invention. Imagine my surprise when the fellow returned with a gentleman in full dress and introduced me. I, expecting to catch something different, failed to catch his name.
My new acquaintance seemed to feel highly honored with the presentation. He appeared a bit staggered, though, and with difficulty found my wandering hand. Taking my arm, he escorted and introduced me to the convivial assembly as the distinguished guest of the evening—"though somewhat belated, nevertheless his genial presence duly appreciated."
When he mentioned the name of Professor Pythagoras Pod such applause issued from the unsteady occupants of the hundred chairs that I, thinking it my courteous duty to join in the encore, clapped my hands vigorously. This seemed to provoke great merriment. The laughter and clapping grew louder and louder, until hands and throats were inadequate to express the jubilant spirits of the banqueters, and they began to stamp their feet. Finally all arose, threw in the air imaginary hats, broke glasses of wine, and, in fact, I don't know what would have happened if the manager had not entered the scene.