“_I ain’t nobody’s darlin’, I’m blue as can be,_” feelingly rendered by
an indifferent baritone, floated into the room.
“That’s ’im,” shouted Uncle Tom gleefully. “Come in, yer bounder. There
ain’t no room, but we can’t keep you out.”
Mr. Alcock and Mr. Barnham laughed half-heartedly.
Mr. Mason entered, tripped, recovered himself, gave the threshold an
awful look, placed his hat upon the hand which Mr. Barnham was
extending, side-stepped to the fireplace, pressed an imaginary bell and
said, “Waiter bring a non-skid ’ammock and a moonlit night: I’ve just
been married.”
Even Aunt Harriet laughed—rather reluctantly. In fact, good humour was
bundled into the room, neck and crop.
Mr. Mason was tubby and of a cheerful countenance. He was neatly dressed
in a sponge-bag suit which was too tight for him, a low double collar, a
spotted bow tie and sand-shoes. A cane dangled from his pocket and a
faded carnation drooped from his buttonhole.
Miss Gedge was stout, frankly vulgar and, but for a cast in her eye,
would have been a good-looking girl. She was the personification of
contentment and goodwill. A droll pertness of manner enhanced her charm.
She had, moreover, a most infectious laugh. This her squire exploited
vigorously. The two carried all before them.
There were but eight chairs, but the shortage, so far from presenting
difficulty, smoothed an irregularity away. Lady Ann took her proper
place, namely, her husband’s lap, while Ada, with many giggles, subsided
into that of Mr. Alcock.
The tambourine was rolling. . . .
The flow of hatred had been arrested: soon the leak was being
plugged—with the very underlinen of Sensitiveness, delicate, rosy
mysteries, ripped from a girl’s back.
“Yes,” said Mr. Mason. “Children is bits of ’eaven. I was a very large
’unk. I remember Mother sayin’ so when she found ’er boots in the oven.
She didn’t put it that way, but . . . Besides, look at the burf rate.”
Amid shrieks of laughter, he was conjured to ‘give over,’ whilst a
glowing Bob squeezed Ann surreptitiously.
“Oh, isn’t ’e awful?” panted Miss Gedge. “An’ when we’re out ’e does
pass such dreadful remarks. Las’ Saturday afternoon a gentleman’s ’at
blows off. ‘Stop it,’ cries someone. ‘Not me,’ says ’Erbert, ‘I’ve lef’
me gas-marsk at ’ome.’”
There was a gust of merriment. As it died down, a fat guffaw of delight
announced Uncle Tom’s perception of the point.
“’E ought to go on the ’alls,” said Mr. Alcock. “Make ’is fortune.”
Mr. Mason shook his head.
“Why,” he said, “I should be stole in a week. An’ there’ld be pore
Mabel——”
“I should worry,” said Miss Gedge. “But you can’t ’ave your ’Untley an’
eat it too, can you, May?”
“Not likely,” said May. “Look at pore Mrs. Stoker.”
“There’s a tregedy,” said Aunt Harriet. “An’ three children an’ all.”
Mr. Barnham, who had been awaiting his chance, groaned eloquently.
“So when ’e talks about the stage,” continued Miss Gedge, “I says, ‘You
go, me little friend,’ I says, ‘and ’ere’s ’appy days. But don’t you
call roun’ for me on Monday evenin’, ’cause this is where you get off.’”
A round of applause acclaimed this admirable sentiment.
Mr. Mason blinked very hard.
“Ah, well,” he said, “I s’pose it’ll ’ave to be ’oly orders after all.”
He adjusted his collar, peered at an imaginary book and looked up
earnestly. “Brethren, we will now sing _Cease thy ticklin’, Jock_.”
This justly occasioned great laughter.