The men followed in a kind of dream. Mr. Hunter's embarrassment took a delirious form, the poor man spending several minutes in a vain attempt to hang his hat on the antlers of a monster head about three feet beyond his utmost reach. Finally it fell into a bowl of goldfish that stood beneath the antlers; great was the agitation among the finny inmates, but it was nothing as compared to Mr. Hunter's.
"That's all right," David sang out cheerily; "reckon they thought it was an eclipse o' the sun," he suggested. "Fling your lid on the floor—I hate style when you have visitors," whereupon Mr. Hunter, fearful of further accident, bended almost to his knees upon the floor and deposited the dripping article carefully beneath the sofa. Mr. Glady, more self-possessed, resorted to his pocket-handkerchief, his hat still safe upon his head. Hiding his face in the copious calico, he blew a blast so loud and clear, that the little fishes, mistaking it for Gabriel's trump, rose with cue accord to the surface—and David's favourite collie answered loudly from the kitchen. Compelled by a sense of propriety to reappear from the bandana, Mr. Glady began hurriedly to sit down and was about to sink upon the glass top of a case of many-coloured eggs, Madeline's especial pride, when David flew between.
"Don't," he cried appealingly, "them's fowl's eggs—an' anyhow, this ain't the clockin' season," whereupon Mr. Glady leaped so far forward again that he collided with a small replica of the Venus de Milo on a mahogany stand, the goddess and the mahogany both oscillating a little with the impact.
Mr. Glady stared at the delicate creation, then cast quick glances about the floor. "Did I break off those arms?" he asked excitedly, pale as death.
"Oh bless you, no—she was winged when she was born," said David, trying to breathe naturally, and imploring the men to be seated, whereat they slowly descended into chairs, as storm-bruised vessels creep into their berths.
When both were safely lodged a deep silence fell. David looked expectantly from one to the other and each of the visitors looked appealingly towards his mate. Finally Mr. Glady brought his lips apart with a smack: "We come—we come to see you, Mr. Borland, because you're an employer of labour and——"
"By George, I'm glad to hear that," David chimed in gleefully; "that's elegant—there'd be less jawin' between labour an' capital if there was more visitin' back an' furrit like this. I can't tell you how tickled I am to see you both. I don't have many visitors," he went on rather mournfully, "that is, in a social way. A good many drops out to see me with subscription lists—but they never bring their knittin'," David added with a melancholy smile. "Most o' my evenin's is very lonely. I've seen me wearyin' so bad that I asked the missus to play on the pianner—an' one night I shaved three times, to pass the time."
"Please, Mr. Borland, supper's on the table," said a small voice at the door.
David leaped to his feet. "Come on, Mr. Hunter—come away, Mr. Glady, an' we'll get outside o' somethin'," taking an arm of each and turning towards the door.
The men faintly protested, pleading a similar previous operation; but David overbore them with sweeping cordiality. "Let's go through the motions anyhow," he said. "I'm an awful delicate eater myself; the bite I eat, you could put in—in a hogshead," turning an amiable grin on his guests. "Here, you sit there, Mr. Hunter—an' I guess that's your stall, Mr. Glady; I'm sorry my missus can't come—she's workin'. An' my daughter's away somewhere workin' at wood—turnin' an honest penny. Will you ask a blessin', Mr. Hunter?"