“Well, laddie,” he said, “it’s your turn now.”
I endeavoured to push myself away from him.
“Take him away,” I shouted. “Take that man away. Where’s Mr. Chrysostom? Where’s Miss Moonbeam?”
The tumult in the hall was now indescribable. Glasses of water were on every side of me. But I thrust them all aside and shouted to the naval officer to bring me the bottle that he had placed upon the table.
“The bottle,” I cried. “Bring me the bottle. Never mind the glass. Give me the bottle.”
But the naval officer, evidently at his request, had handed the bottle to Mr. Chrysostom. I saw him examine it through his spectacles in his usual pompous and deliberate fashion and then, with a heightened colour and protuberant eyes, exhibit it to Ezekiel and the members of the committee.
“Disgraceful,” he said, “perfectly disgraceful. The fellow’s drunk, I say. Just look at that. Vintage Port, and he’s been drinking it out of a tumbler. Perfectly disgraceful. Show me the way out.”
I rose to my feet and caught sight of Miss Moonbeam’s brothers.
“Give me that bottle,” I cried. “Give me the tails of my coat. Who says I’m drunk? Where’s the Portugalade? Take that man away. Where’s Miss Moonbeam?”
“But he’s my father,” she said.