The truth was, Limby made such a roaring that neither father nor mother could get their dinners, and scarcely knew whether they were eating beef or mutton.
"It is impossible to let him ride on the mutton," said his father—"quite impossible!"
"Well, but you might just put him astride the dish, just to satisfy him. You can take care his legs or clothes do not go into the gravy."
"Anything for a quiet life," said the father. "What does Limby want? Limby ride?"
"Limby on bone! Limby on meat!"
"Shall I put him across?" said Mr. Lumpy.
"Just for one moment," said his mother; "it won't hurt the mutton."
The father rose, and took Limby from his chair, and, with the greatest caution, held his son's legs astride, so that they might hang on each side of the dish without touching it—"just to satisfy him," as he said, "that they might dine in quiet—" and was about to withdraw him from it immediately.
But Limby was not to be cheated in that way. He wished to feel the saddle under him, and accordingly forced himself down upon it; but feeling it rather warmer than was agreeable, started, and lost his balance, and fell down among the dishes, soused in melted butter, cauliflower, and gravy, floundering, and kicking, and screaming, to the detriment of glasses, jugs, dishes, and everything else on the table.