To a chorus of “No,” “Chuck it,” and “You’re having us on, old man,” he responded:
“Solemn fact, I give you my word. We meet in Jesmond Dene at the witching hour of twelve. Coffee for one at five past.”
Never before had the company enjoyed so rich a jest, and they fell about in ecstasies of rib-punching laughter.
“ ’Course I saw through it,” said May, “though he played his bluff well. I wish some of you had been there. I was as solemn as a judge. Lord! it was funny.”
“D’you think he was bluffing, then?” asked a very young man, whose name was Manning, and who secretly harboured admiration for Eliphalet Cardomay.
“I don’t think about it, darling,” responded May, and was greeted with a fresh burst of merriment, in which all but the aforesaid youngster joined.
“It ’ud be funnier still,” he ventured, “if it turned out that he wasn’t bluffing at all.”
But no one took any notice of that aside.
“What are you going to do, Mr. May?” asked one.
“I shall turn up, of course, dear boy, and, like as not, catch a cold waiting half the night, while our little friend is sleeping in bed. Tell you what: this joke is too big to keep to oneself. I’ll pay the hire of a wagonette, then you can all slip off after the show and see the fun.”