“Who-o-ip!” shouted Fydget Fyxington, forgetting himself in the excitement of the scene—“Who-o-ip!” added he, as he danced forward with prodigious vigour and activity, flourishing the eatables with which his hands were crammed, as if they were a pair of cymbals—“Whurro-o-o! plank it down—that’s your sort!—make yourselves merry, gals and boys—it’s all accordin’ to first principles—whoo-o-o-ya—whoop!—it takes us!”
Direful was the screaming at this formidable apparition—the fiddles ceased—the waltzers dropped their panting burdens, and the black band looked pale and aghast.
“Who-o-o-p! go ahead!—come it strong!” continued Fydget.
But he was again doomed to suffer an ejectment.
“Hustle him out!”
“Give us a ‘shinplaster’ then—them’s my terms.”
It would not do—he was compelled to retire shinplasterless; but it rained so heavily that, nothing daunted, he marched up the alley-way, re-entered the house through the garden, and gliding noiselessly into the cellar, turned a large barrel over which he found there, and getting into it, went fast asleep “on first principles.”
The company had departed—the servants were assembled in the kitchen preparatory to retiring for the night, when an unearthly noise proceeding from the barrel aforesaid struck upon their astonished ears. It was Fydget snoring, and his hearers, screaming, fled.
Rallying, however, at the top of the stairs, they procured the aid of Mr. Lynx, who watched over the nocturnal destinies of an unfinished building in the vicinity, and who, having frequently boasted of his valour, felt it to be a point of honour to act bravely on this occasion. The sounds continued, and the “investigating committee,” with Mr. Lynx as chairman, advanced slowly and with many pauses.
Lynx at last hurriedly thrust his club into the barrel, and started back to wait the result of the experiment.