“Pie,” said the Punt boy, “Pie!”
“You sit ’ere and ’ave ’am, my lord!” said Mrs. Punt, prevailing. “Pie you can’t ’ave and you won’t.”
“Lor bless my heart, Mrs. Punt!” protested Mr. Voules, “let the boy ’ave a bit if he wants it—wedding and all!”
“You ’aven’t ’ad ’im sick on your ’ands, Uncle Voules,” said Mrs. Punt. “Else you wouldn’t want to humour his fancies as you do. . . .”
“I can’t help feeling it’s a mistake, O’ Man,” said Johnson, in a confidential undertone. “I can’t help feeling you’ve been Rash. Let’s hope for the best.”
“Always glad of good wishes, O’ Man,” said Mr. Polly. “You’d better have a drink of something. Anyhow, sit down to it.”
Johnson subsided gloomily, and Mr. Polly secured some ham and carried it off and sat himself down on the sewing machine on the floor in the corner to devour it. He was hungry, and a little cut off from the rest of the company by Mrs. Voules’ hat and back, and he occupied himself for a time with ham and his own thoughts. He became aware of a series of jangling concussions on the table. He craned his neck and discovered that Mr. Voules was standing up and leaning forward over the table in the manner distinctive of after-dinner speeches, tapping upon the table with a black bottle. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Voules, raising his glass solemnly in the empty desert of sound he had made, and paused for a second or so. “Ladies and gentlemen,—The Bride.”
