“Eh, what, Maria, me wanted? Why, who wants Johnny Pounce at half-past twelve on Christmas morning?”
“It's a gentleman, sir. It's from the Firm. He's in the back room.”
“God bless me, at this time of night! Excuse me, old friends, for a moment; I'll be with you again directly. Here, young John, take my place, my boy, and give 'em a song: I'll be back directly.” And Johnny Pounce left the room.
Young John could not in strictness be complimented upon his conduct in the chair. The song which his father had suggested on leaving the room was loudly called for.
“Now, young John,” said Round. “The song. Silence in court.”
“Oh, do, Mr. John,” chorused the ladies.
“For my sake,” added Miss Round.
“Yes, for her sake,” muttered the toast-master ironically.
“Look here,” said John, “I'm not in cue for singing, and that's the long and short of it. Hang it all. Can't you see that?”
It could be seen, and very plainly, too. The poor fellow presented a depressing specimen of a convivial chairman.
“I believe it's usual to sing when called on,” said the toast-master. “At least, that's the rule.”
“Hear, hear,” from Feather. “Now, gents, what do you say? The prisoner at the bar stands on his deliverance.”
