The landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in which process Mr. Codlin obligingly assisted by setting forth his own knife and fork in the most convenient place and establishing himself behind them. When everything was ready, the landlord took off the cover for the last time, and then indeed there burst forth such a goodly promise of supper, that if he had offered to put it on again or had hinted at postponement, he would certainly have been sacrificed on his own hearth.
However, he did nothing of the kind, but instead thereof assisted a stout servant girl in turning the contents of the cauldron into a large tureen; a proceeding which the dogs, proof against various hot splashes which fell upon their noses, watched with terrible eagerness. At length the dish was lifted on the table, and mugs of ale having been previously set round, little Nell ventured to say grace, and supper began.
At this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their hind legs quite surprisingly; the child, having pity on them, was about to cast some morsels of food to them before she tasted it herself, hungry though she was, when their master interposed.
“No my dear, no, not an atom from anybody’s hand but mine if you please. That dog” said Jerry, pointing out the old leader of the troop, and speaking in a terrible voice, “lost a halfpenny today. He goes without his supper.”
The unfortunate creature dropped upon his forelegs directly, wagged his tail, and looked imploringly at his master.
“You must be more careful Sir” said Jerry, walking coolly to the chair where he had placed the organ, and setting the stop. “Come here. Now Sir, you play away at that, while we have supper, and leave off if you dare.”
The dog immediately began to grind most mournful music. His master having shown him the whip resumed his seat and called up the others, who, at his directions, formed in a row, standing upright as a file of soldiers.
“Now gentlemen” said Jerry, looking at them attentively. “The dog whose name’s called, eats. The dogs whose names an’t called, keep quiet. Carlo!”
The lucky individual whose name was called, snapped up the morsel thrown towards him, but none of the others moved a muscle. In this manner they were fed at the discretion of their master. Meanwhile the dog in disgrace ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time, sometimes in slow, but never leaving off for an instant. When the knives and forks rattled very much, or any of his fellows got an unusually large piece of fat, he accompanied the music with a short howl, but he immediately checked it on his master looking round, and applied himself with increased diligence to the Old Hundredth.
XIX
Supper was not yet over, when there arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two more travellers bound for the same haven as the rest, who had been walking in the rain for some hours, and came in shining and heavy with water. One of these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little lady without legs or arms, who had jogged forward in a van; the other, a silent gentleman who earned his living by showing tricks upon the cards, and who had rather deranged the natural expression of his countenance by putting small leaden lozenges into his eyes and bringing them out at his mouth, which was one of his professional accomplishments. The name of the first of these newcomers was Vuffin; the other, probably as a pleasant satire upon his ugliness, was called Sweet William. To render them as comfortable as he could, the landlord bestirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time both gentlemen were perfectly at their ease.
“How’s the Giant?” said Short, when they all sat smoking round the fire.
“Rather weak upon his legs,” returned Mr. Vuffin. “I begin to be afraid he’s going at the knees.”
“That’s a bad lookout,” said Short.
“Aye! Bad indeed,” replied Mr. Vuffin, contemplating the fire with a sigh. “Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no more about him than they do for a dead cabbage stalk.”
“What becomes of the old giants?” said Short, turning to him again after a little reflection.
“They’re usually kept in carawans to wait upon the dwarfs,” said Mr. Vuffin.
“The maintaining of ’em must come expensive, when they can’t be shown, eh?” remarked Short, eyeing him doubtfully.
“It’s better that, than letting ’em go upon the parish or about the streets,” said Mr. Vuffin. “Once make a giant common and giants will never draw again. Look at wooden legs. If there was only one man with a wooden leg what a property he’d be!”
“So he would!” observed the landlord and Short both together. “That’s very true.”
“Instead of which,” pursued Mr. Vuffin, “if you was to advertise Shakespeare played entirely by wooden legs, it’s my belief you wouldn’t draw a sixpence.”
“I don’t suppose you would,” said Short. And the landlord said so too.
“This shows you see,” said Mr. Vuffin, waving his pipe with an argumentative air, “this shows the policy of keeping the used-up Giants still in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for nothing, all their lives, and in general very glad they are to stop there. There was one giant—a black ’un—as left his carawan some year ago and took to carrying coach-bills
