uncle Popworth, from long habit, turned off his talk at that suggestive
moment: when I did what I thought a shrewd thing. I knew too well my
relative's long-windedness at his devotions, as at everything else (I
wonder if Heaven itself isn't bored by such fellows!)--I had suffered, I
had seen my guests suffer, too much from him already,--to think of
deliberately yielding him a fearful advantage over us; so I coolly
passed him by, and gave an expressive nod to the old Doctor.

Wortleby began; and I was congratulating myself on my adroit management
of a delicate matter, when--conceive my consternation!--Popworth--not to
speak it profanely--followed suit! The reverend egotist couldn't take in
the possibility of anybody but himself being invited to say grace at our
table, he being present;--he hadn't noticed my nod to the Doctor, and
the Doctor's low, earnest voice didn't reach him;--and there, with one
blessing going on one side of the table, he, as I said, pitched in on
the other! His eyes shut, his hands spread over his plate, his elbows on
the board, his head bowed, he took care that grace should abound with us
for once! His mill started, I knew there was no stopping it, and I hoped
Wortleby would desist. But he didn't know his man. He seemed to feel
that he had the stroke-oar, and he pulled away manfully. As Popworth
lifted up his loud, nasal voice, the old Doctor raised his voice, in the
vain hope, I suppose, of making himself heard by his lusty competitor.
If you have never had two blessings running opposition at your table, in
the presence of invited guests, you can never imagine how astounding,
how killingly ludicrous it was! I felt that both Linton and Gregg were
ready to tumble over, each in an apoplexy of suppressed emotions; while
I had recourse to my handkerchief to hide my tears. At length, poor
Wortleby yielded to fate,--withdrew from the unequal contest--hauled
off--for repairs; and the old seventy-two gun-ship thundered away in
triumph.