The company sat on, an interminable period of time it seemed to the
Vicar. He glanced stealthily at his watch. Eleven o'clock.

"Thinking of going, Parson?" said Mr. Threpp. "I'll go with you. My
head's not one of the strongest, and I've had about as much as I ought
to carry."

They rose quietly, not to disturb the table; intending to steal away, if
possible, without being observed. Unluckily, Captain Monk chanced to be
looking that way.

"Halloa! who's turning sneak?--Not you, surely, Parson!--" in a
meaningly contemptuous tone. "And _you_, Threpp, of all men! Sit down
again, both of you, if you don't want to quarrel with me. Odds fish!
has my dining-room got sharks in it, that you'd run away? Winter, just
lock the door, will you; you are close to it; and pass up the key to
me."

Mr. Winter, a jovial old man and the largest tenant on the estate, rose
to do the Captain's behest, and sent up the key.

"Nobody quits my room," said the host, as he took it, "until we have
seen the old year out and the new one in. What else do you come for--eh,
gentlemen?"

The revelry went on. The decanters circulated more quickly, the glasses
clicked, the songs became louder, the Captain's sea stories broader. Mr.
West perforce made the best of the situation, certain words of Holy Writ
running through his memory: