The time and tone chosen were admirable. While King was warming himself by a preliminary canter round the Form’s literary deficiencies, Turkey coughed in a style which suggested a reminder to a slack employé that it was time to stop chattering and get to work. As King began to bristle, Turkey inquired: “I’d be glad to know, sir, if it’s true that Shakespeare did not write his own plays at all?”
“Good God!” said King most distinctly. Turkey coughed again piously. “They all say so in Ireland, sir.”
“Ireland—Ireland—Ireland!” King overran Ireland with one blast of flame that should have been written in letters of brass for instruction to-day. At the end, Turkey coughed once more, and the cough said: “It is Shakespeare, and not my country, that you are hired to interpret to me.” He put it directly, too: “An’ is it true at all about the alleged plays, sir?”
“It is not,” Mr. King whispered, and began to explain, on lines that might, perhaps, have been too freely expressed for the parents of those young (though it gave their offspring delight), but with a passion, force, and wealth of imagery which would have crowned his discourse at any university. By the time he drew towards his peroration the Form was almost openly applauding. Howell noiselessly drummed the cadence of “Bonnie Dundee” on his desk; Paddy Vernon framed a dumb: “Played! Oh, well played, sir!” at intervals; Stalky kept tally of the brighter gems of invective; and Beetle sat aghast but exulting among the spirits he had called up. For though their works had never been mentioned, and though Mr. King said he had merely glanced at the obscene publications, he seemed to know a tremendous amount about Nathaniel and Delia—especially Delia.
“I told you so!” said Beetle, proudly, at the end.
“What? Him! I wasn’t botherin’ myself to listen to him an’ his Delia,” McTurk replied.
Afterwards King fought his battle over again with the Reverend John in the Common Room.
“Had I been that triple ass Hume, I might have risen to the bait. As it is, I flatter myself I left them under no delusions as to Shakespeare’s authenticity. Yes, a small drink, please. Virtue has gone out of me indeed. But where did they get it from?”
“The devil! The young devil,” the Reverend John muttered, half aloud.