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.
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