The appointed time for the commencement of the celebrations
had arrived. The members of the society, their guests, and the visiting
dignitaries looked for their places at the tables, an operation which was
protracted beyond any reasonable notion of convenience by the fact that the
copying of the place cards had been performed by Mr Tony Jobling, whose frequent
patronage of The Sol’s Arms was
inclined to have a detrimental effect on the steadiness of his hand and, in
consequence, on the legibility of his script. Once all disputes over the
seating arrangements had been settled there remained but one empty chair, and
that was the place reserved for the guest of honour. As Mr Headstone rose to
initiate the proceedings with a speech of welcome for that absent gentleman, approaching
footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the entire company turned in
anticipation of the entrance of the celebrated writer. The door opened, a loud
huzzah echoed around the room, and a waiter, bearing a tray of thin slices of
ham, tongue and German sausage, presented a countenance of amazement to the equally
surprised assembly. When he returned to the kitchen he observed to the cook
that it was gratifying to receive such vocal approbation of one’s services, and,
rubbing his greasy hands vigorously, anticipated a handsome gratuity at the
conclusion of the evening. A second waiter ascended with a large tureen of soup
and was greeted with another cheer, albeit not quite as vociferous as the one
that had heralded the cold collation. Indeed, with each course – the lobster,
the veal, the beef pie – the reception became less and less enthusiastic, and
by the time the marrow pudding was succeeded by the cheese, the diners had reconciled
themselves to their disappointment with the aid of pints of half and half for
the gentlemen and gin and water for the ladies. The members of the committee
were at a loss to account for the absence of their guest of honour, and
resolved to make it the theme of the first order of business at the next
meeting of the society. Only Mr Benjamin Bailey, formerly of Todger’s boarding
house, seemed to be able to accept the situation with equanimity as he supped
on his rum and pushed the letters of invitation which he had been charged to deliver
deeper into the pockets of his fustian trowsers.
