“No, he’s not my enemy,” protested I. “I never said so.”
“The minutes say so. They’re more likely to be right than you.”
“But I like Dicky Brown,” said I.
“That sounds like poetry,” said Warminster, “ho, ho!
“I like Dicky Brown,
His cheek is so cool,
And if I don’t kick him
You call me a fool.”
“I can do that whether you kick him or not,” said I, quite unmoved by this brilliant impromptu.
Here I was compelled to vacate the chair for a few moments, in order to discuss the matter further with Warminster. On order being restored, the minutes proceeded—
“The Philosophers soon made it too hot for these mules, and they were only allowed to stay on the ground as it amused us to see their idiotic sniggers. The paper on ‘Beauty’ was rot, and invoked well-deserved hisses.”
“Say that again,” ejaculated the outraged Trimble.
“That! there you are,” said Langrish hurriedly. But Trimble had more to say on the subject, and once again the meeting became warm and dusty.