while his thumbs stood erect, meeting in a point.
"Mr Barnacles, I beg ten thousand pardons. Pray give me leave to send you a little more beef."
"Much obleeged, sir; not a morsel more. Never made a better dinner in my life."
"Sure you won't, Mr Barnacles? Just a shave from this end, with a morsel of fat."
"Thank you, sir, kindly – I couldn't. Must beg you to excuse me. Much obleeged. Not a morsel more." – Table cleared.
Fresh plates! more knives and forks! Now it was, in reality, that the dinner began; – enormous sirloin, spitting with volcanic heat; roast fowls, that would have softened the hardest heart; elegant hind-quarter of mutton; pretty little fillet of veal; tongue, ham, boiled turkey, &c.
Behold, a new feature in the game! Barnacles wasn't beat yet. In the attempt to hoax Barnacles, allowance had not been made for his gastronomic powers, and previous privations. Never mind. The more sport.
"Mr Barnacles, a slice of the sirloin. Upper cut, or under cut?"
Barnacles, at the sight of the good things before him, contrary to all calculation sat up with renewed vigour, and paused ere he replied.
"Why, if I do take anything more, I think it must be a small slice of this mutton."
Barnacles helped himself. A small slice! Why, if he didn't cut away into the hind quarter, slice after slice, till he had sunk a regular well. Then spooned out the gravy.
"Give Mr Barnacles the currant jelly. Mr Gingham, we owe that to you."
"Plenty more at your service, sir," said Gingham; "got three or four dozen jars. Always bring some when I visit headquarters. Got it in Berkley Square."
Barnacles now sets to again, fresh as when he began. What powers! what capacity! what deglutition! In fact, it was not only the stomach of Barnacles that needed filling. And that's why you see carnivorous cadaverous men perform such extraordinary feats with knife and fork. Not their stomach merely, their system is hungry. So it was now with Barnacles; and his meal was on a commensurate scale. He was redressing the balance of his constitution – compensating previous inanition. When a man, accustomed to full feeding, has been a few days without it, it isn't the mere filling of his stomach that will satisfy his appetite.
Gingham caught the eye of one of the guests – slightly raised his glass – bowed.
"Oh yace," replied a squeaking voice; "now sall I trink you go t'hell!"
I started. When, when, had I heard that voice before? My eye, for the first time, took a particular view of the speaker. He was a diminutive personage, his complexion a sodden white, with unwholesome patches of red; forehead enormous and mis-shapen; bumps prominent and misplaced; large spectacles, no eyes, upper part of nose wanting, a notch where there should have been a bridge; lower limb of nose broad and sunken, as if squashed down between two puffy cheeks, which bagged on each side; between nose and mouth a space incredible; in fact, a huge upper lip was the most prominent feature of the face; for mustaches, a few detached and very coarse black bristles, pointing opposite ways like a cat's whiskers – each particular bristle standing alone, and individually discernible from its insertion to its extremity; mouth, long and sinuous; lips, viciously twisted out; chin, emaciated. Again he spoke, as Gingham drank to him: "You go t' hell!" Where could I have heard that voice? Why, wasn't it at the ferry, among the Frenchmen that opposed our passage? No, no, that can't be; it's impossible. – "Who's that?" I whispered Gingham.
"A man of science, sir; a Russian – Mr Wowski, an ardent botanist. Wished to examine the flora of the South of France; brought out letters of recommendation; joined the army, and follows its movements. You'll like his acquaintance vastly." Then louder – "Mr Wowski, my friend, Mr Y – ; your junior, but a promising naturalist. Hope at an early day you'll meet him to dinner at my quarters."
"Mr Barnacles, shall I have the pleasure? – some turkey, sir?"
By this time Mr Barnacles seemed again to feel that he had dined.
"The least possible shave," said Mr Barnacles. "I really have made a most capital dinner."
I helped him to a good plateful, which he cleared off. – All removed.
Next followed a few made dishes, light articles; and one real delicacy, which was first introduced to our acquaintance by Gingham. This was no other than a kid, baked whole. I take the liberty, my dear sir, of very particularly and pointedly calling your attention to the dish in question. I have, on previous occasions, ventured to offer gastronomic hints. But a kid thus dressed is a real delicacy, worthy of a place on any table. N. B. – If you bake, envelop in paste. Should you prefer roasting, cover with paper. Let the roasting be gentle, but complete. Of course you don't stretch out the legs. Double them up, and skewer to the sides. For sauce, chop up the pluck. Sauce should be piquant, with lots of cayenne, subacid. Or make a separate dish, with the pluck and heart.
Pensive regret was mingled, in the face of Barnacles, with intense curiosity, while he viewed this novel entrée, as it made its appearance in a case of dough. Capsicum asked no question; sent him a plateful; a great part of which he was forced to send away. It was clear Mr Barnacles was now beat to a standstill.
The dish, though, was rather rich; and what he had eaten took effect. His countenance changed. Suddenly he became pallid, with an effort to look degagé. This lasted about a minute, in which time he swallowed two successive bumpers of madeira. The dose so far kept him right, that Barnacles didn't leave the table: but he was evidently hors de combat.
Mr B. being now brought to a standstill, the joke was so far successful. Yet was not the hoax complete, unless there appeared something on table that he liked, and yet something of which he could not partake.
The sweets now made their appearance, and were viewed by Mr Barnacles with indifference. But when the table was wellnigh covered, and space remained for only a single dish —
Enter a splendid plum-pudding – yes, a regular English plum-pudding – its summit hoary with pounded sugar, its sides distilling brandy sauce.
The eyes of Barnacles lit up again – sparkled. He was alive in a moment. Once more his fist went bang into his hand; once more his hands embraced and rubbed, as in mutual congratulation. Forgetting all his previous performances, he accepted a substantial slice of the plum-pudding. Alas! he had kept no corner!
"You don't seem," said Capsicum, "to like your pudding, Mr Barnacles."
"Oh yes! Oh yes!" said Barnacles, with emotion. "Indeed I do, sir. It's what I never, never expected to see again till my return – till my return to the British metropolis. But" – It ended in a watering-pot scene – a regular boo-hoo. He put his handkerchief to his face. It was too much for his feelings. Plum-pudding before him as good as could be got in London, and he not able to eat a mouthful! The poor man cried.
He made up after dinner, though, by copious potations. After coffee, sat down to a rubber. One of the party proposed guinea points. But Capsicum saw how matters stood with Barnacles, and wouldn't stand it. "No, no, gentlemen," said he; "no stakes; no stakes." In the course of the evening Mr Barnacles disappeared. Alarmed by his prolonged absence, Capsicum sent a servant, who came back with the report that he was not very well. He returned – took a stiff glass of whisky-punch – again disappeared. I, by Capsicum's request, went this time in search. Found him at length in the stable. He was trying to saddle his horse; – couldn't. He wanted to steal away. I reported to Capsicum, who at once decided. "Mr Barnacles must not go home to-night. We must find him a shake-down on the premises."
