The company had quite enough to talk about without having to fall back on shouting proverbs or musical chairs. Indeed, there were several little excitements in the wind which came out one by one, and made the evening a sort of epoch in the lives of most of those present.
For instance, young Gedge was there no longer as a common compositor. He had lately been made, youth as he was, overseer in the room of Durfy; and the dignity of his new office filled him with sobriety and good-humour.
“It’s no fault of mine,” said he, when Mrs Cruden congratulated him on his promotion. “If Cruden hadn’t stood by me that time he first came to the Rocket, I should have gone clean to the dogs. I mean it. I was going full tilt that way.”
“But I went off and left you after all,” said Reginald.
“I know you did; and I was sorry at the time you hadn’t left that cab-horse to finish his business the evening you picked me up. But Horace here and Mrs Cruden—”
“Picked you up again,” said Waterford. “Regular fellow for being picked up, you are. All comes of your habit of picking up types. One of nature’s revenges—and the last to pick you up is the Rocket. What an appetite she’s got, to be sure!”
“I should think so from the way she swallows your and Horace’s lucubrations every week,” says Gedge, laughing. “Why, I actually know a fellow who knows a fellow who laughed at one of your jokes.”
“Come, none of your chaff,” said Horace, looking not at all displeased. “You never laughed at a joke, I know, because you never see one.”
“No more I do. That’s what I complain of,” replied the incorrigible young overseer.
“Never mind, we shall have our revenge when he has to put our joint novel in print,” said Waterford. “Ah, I thought you’d sit up there, my boy. Never mind, you’ll know about it some day. The first chapter is half done already.”