Part 15 (1/2)

OF A TOWN THAT WOULD LAUGH AT THE GREAT. AND HOW A DULL COMPANY WAS CURED BY AN IRISH SONG.

We left the Misses Buzza engaged in rowing their papa homewards.

The Three Queens as they steered King Arthur to Avilion can have been no sadder pageant. It is true the Misses Buzza grieved for no Excalibur, but the Admiral had lost his c.o.c.ked-hat.

Picture to yourself that procession: the journey past the jetties; the faces that grinned down from overhanging hulls, or looked out hurriedly at cas.e.m.e.nts and grew pale; the blue-jerseyed Trojan lounging on the quay, and pausing in his whistle to stare; the Trojan maidens gazing, with arrested needle; the s.h.i.+pwrights dropping mallet and tar-pot; the ferrymen resting on their oars; the makers of s.h.i.+p's biscuit rus.h.i.+ng out, with ap.r.o.ns flying, to see the sight; the butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker--each and all agog.

Then imagine the Olympian mirth that ran along the waterside when Troy saw the joke, and, hand on hip, laughed with all its lungs.

But even this was not the worst: no, nor the crowd of urchins that followed from the landing-stage and cheered at intervals.

It was when Admiral Buzza looked up and spied the face of Mrs.

Goodwyn-Sandys at an upper window of ”The Bower,” that the cup of his humiliation indeed brimmed over.

Mrs. Buzza, ”t.i.ttivating” at the mirror, heard the stir, and, presentient of evil, rushed down-stairs. She saw her lord restored to her, dear but damp. Yet she ”nor swooned, nor uttered cry:” she simply sat violently and suddenly down upon the hall-chair, and piteously stared.

”Emily, get up!”

She did so.

”You are wet, my love,” she ventured timorously.

”_Wet!_ Woman, is this the time for airy _persiflage?_”

”My love,” replied Mrs. Buzza, meekly, ”nothing was further from my thoughts.”

The Admiral glared upon her for a moment, but the retort died upon his lips. He flung his hands out with an appealing gesture and something like a sob.

”Emily,” he cried, hoa.r.s.ely, ”Troy has laughed at me again. Put me to bed.”

O forgiving heart of woman! In a moment her arms were about him, and her tears mingling with the general dampness of the Admiral's costume. Then, having wept her fill, she smiled a little, dried her eyes, and put the Admiral to bed.

Out of doors Troy still laughed at the mishap. The whole story was soon related (with infinite humour) by the unfilial Sam. Down at the ”Man-o'-War,” in the bar-parlour, for seven days it formed the sole topic of discussion; and Mr. Moggridge (who ought to have respected Sophia's father) even wrote a humorous ode upon the theme, beginning--

”Ye G.o.ds and little fishes . . .”

and full of the quaintest conceits. For seven days, from dawn to nightfall, the river off Kit's House was crowded with boat-loads of curious gazers, and the Steam-Tug Company (Limited) neglected its serious business to run special excursions to the scene of the catastrophe.

The Trojan maidens especially would stare at the Notice by the half-hour (that being the time allowed by the Steam-Tug Company), and hope, with much blus.h.i.+ng and giggling, to catch a glimpse of Mr.

Fogo. But the hermit remained steadily indoors.

Meanwhile the Admiral sulked in bed, and nursed his ill-humour.

On Tuesday he was strangely softened and quiet; but:--

On Wednesday he recovered, and began to bully his wife as fiercely as ever.

On Thursday he broke the bell-rope again, and the servant gave warning.

On Friday he threatened to make his will, and refused his food.

On Sat.u.r.day he was still fasting.