beg your pardon, gentlemen. I didn't mean to say that, really. Rum is
about the only decent thing in this place. Rum keeps us alive. If any
man says a word against rum, I'll call him an infernal ass. I meant
to say the country, gentlemen--this rotten old country, don't you know.
No cricket, no society, no Bass, no anything. Supposing we had gone
to Canada with our--our capital and energies, wouldn't they have
received us with open arms? And what's the reception we get here? Now,
gentlemen, what I propose is this: let's protest. Let's get up a
what-d'you-call-it to the thing they call a government. 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."