“Gentlemen,” continued Mr. Chillingworth, when order had been at length restored, “I’ve been thinking, that’s what I’ve been doing. Now let’s review the situation. Here we stand, a colony of English gentlemen: here we are, don’t you know, far from our homes and country and all that sort of thing. What says the poet? I daresay some of you fellows remember the passage. But what for, I ask! What, gentlemen, is the object of our being here? That’s just what I’m going to tell you, don’t you know. We are here, gentlemen, to infuse a little of our Anglo-Saxon energy, and all that sort of thing, into this dilapidated old tinpot of a nation.”
Here the orator was encouraged by a burst of applause.
“Now, gentlemen,” he continued, “isn’t it hard—devilish hard, don’t you know, that so little is made of us? I feel it—I feel it, gentlemen; our lives are being frittered away. I don’t know whether you fellows feel it. You see, we ain’t a melancholy lot. We’re a glorious combination against the blue devils, that’s what we are. Only sometimes I feel, don’t you know, that all the rum in the place can’t quite kill them. I can’t help thinking of jolly days on the other side of the water. Now, don’t you fellows look at me as if you thought I was going to blubber. I’m not going to make such a confounded ass of myself, don’t you know. But what I want you fellows to tell me is this: Are we to go on all our lives making beasts of ourselves, guzzling rum—I—I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I didn’t mean to say that, really. Rum is about the only decent thing in this place. Rum keeps us alive. If any man says a word against rum, I’ll call him an infernal ass. I meant to say the country, gentlemen—this rotten old country, don’t you know. No cricket, no society, no Bass, no anything. Supposing we had gone to Canada with our—our capital and energies, wouldn’t they have received us with open arms? And what’s the reception we get here? Now, gentlemen, what I propose is this: let’s protest. Let’s get up a what-d’you-call-it to the thing they call a government. We’ll state our case to the thing, gentlemen; and we’ll insist on it and be very firm; that’s what we’ll do, don’t you know. Are we to live amongst these miserable monkeys and give them the benefit of our—our—yes, gentlemen, our capital and energies, and get nothing in return? No, no; we must let them know that we are not satisfied, that we will be very angry with them. That’s about all I have to say, gentlemen.”
Loud applause followed, during which the orator sat down rather suddenly on the floor. Then followed “Rule Britannia,” everyone assisting with all the breath in his lungs to make night hideous.
When the song was finished the loud snoring of Captain Wriothesley became audible. He had begun to spread some rugs to lie on, but, becoming hopelessly entangled in his bridle-reins, surcingle, and stirrup-straps, had fallen to sleep with his feet on his saddle and his head on the floor.
“Hallo, we can’t have this!” shouted one of the fellows. “Let’s wake old Cloud by firing at the wall over him and knocking some plaster on to his head. It’ll be awful fun, you know.”
Everybody was delighted with the proposal, except poor Chillingworth, who, after delivering his speech, had crept away on all fours into a corner, where he was sitting alone and looking very pale and miserable.
The firing now began, most of the bullets hitting the wall only a few inches above the recumbent Captain’s head, scattering dust and bits of plaster over his purple face. I jumped up in alarm and rushed amongst them, telling them in my haste that they were too drunk to hold their revolvers properly, and would kill their friend.
My interference raised a loud, angry remonstrance, in the midst of which the Captain, who was lying in a most uncomfortable position, woke, and, struggling into a sitting posture, stared vacantly at us, his reins and straps wound like serpents about his neck and arms.
“What’s all the row ’bout?” he demanded huskily. “Getting up rev’lution, I s’pose. A’right; only thing to do in this country. Only don’t ask me to be pres’dent. Nor good enough. Goo’ night, boys; don’t cut my throat by mistake. Gor bless you all.”
“No, no, don’t go to sleep, Cloud,” they shouted. “Lamb’s the cause of all this. He says we’re drunk—that’s the way Lamb repays our hospitality. We were firing to wake you up, old Cap, to have a drink—”
“A drink—yes,” assented the Captain hoarsely.
“And Lamb was afraid we would injure you. Tell him, old Cloud, whether you’re afraid of your friends. Tell Lamb what you think of his conduct.”
“Yes, I’ll tell him,” returned the Captain in his thick tones. “Lamb shan’t interfere, gentlemen. But you know you took him in, didn’t you, now? And what was my opinion of him? It wasn’t right of you fellows, was it, now? He couldn’t be one of us, you know, could he now? I’ll leave it to you, gentlemen; didn’t I say the fellow was a cad? Why the devil doesn’t he leave me alone then? I’ll tell you what I’ll do with Lamb, I’ll punch his damned nose, don’t you know.”
And here the gallant gentleman attempted to rise, but his legs refused to assist him, and, tumbling back against the wall, he was only able to glare at me out of his watery eyes.
I went up to him, intending, I suppose, to punch his nose, but, suddenly changing my mind, I merely picked up my saddle and things, then left the room with a hearty curse on Captain Cloudesley Wriothesley, the evil genius, drunk or sober, of the colony of English gentlemen. I was no sooner outside the door than the joy they felt at
