Great Reporter—“I am.”
G. S.-E.—“Why, I’ve been making masonic signs to you for the last half-hour.”
G. R.—“Do you call me a——?”
G. S.-E.—“I do.”
G. R.—“Then——” (and they roll together on the floor).
Head waiter (rushing in)—“What’s this? What’s this about?”
Manageress—“Only two gentlemen making a few masonic signs under the table.”
Of course, as a rule, harmony prevails in the “Cheese,” and “chaff” abounds without physical threshing, for the habitués love the ancient hostelry and themselves too much to make the place a bear-garden.
To quote again from the Sportsman:—
“There is a sense of comfort and veneration about the place which constitutes an absolute charm. There is something homely and out of the common in its sawdust-coated floors, with uneven boards and great gaping ‘chinks.’ The fireplaces are huge and commodious, capable of holding a hundredweight of coal at a time. These said fireplaces, by the way, have much to answer for in legions of broken resolutions to be home at six. On a cold winter’s day, when their genial warmth penetrates every portion of the room, and the merry flames dance and leap after each other up the capacious chimney space, a man listens to the howling wind without, or hears the rain pattering on the paved courts, and he says, says he, ‘The old woman may be cross, or the mater may scold; but we don’t kill a sheep every day, and—just one more, James, and I will catch the seven.’ Those wicked fireplaces, the huge singing kettle, the cosy recesses, and the seductive perfume of toddy have indeed much to answer for.”