In fine, we all carried on
astonishingly, some good singing was given, a practical joke was tried
on now and then by Fyall, and we continued mighty happy. As to the
singing part of it,--the landlord, with a bad voice, and worse ear,
opened the rorytory, by volunteering a very extraordinary squeak;
fortunately it was not very long, but it gave him a plea to screw a song
out of his right--hand neighbour, who in turn acquired the same right of
compelling the person next to him to make a fool of himself; at last it
came to Transom, who, by the by, sung exceedingly well, but he had got
more wine than usual, and essayed the coquette a bit.
"Bring the wet nightcap!" quoth our host.
"Oh, it is that you are at?" said Transom, and he sung as required; but
it was all pearls before swine, I fear.
At last we stuck fast at Fyall. Music! there was not one particle in
his whole composition; so the wet nightcap already impended over him,
when I sung out, "Let him tell a story, Mr Wagtail! Let him tell a
story!"
"Thank you, Tom," said Fyall; "I owe you a good turn for that, my boy."
"Fyall's story--Mr Fyall's story!" resounded on all hands. Fyall, glad
to escape the song and wet nightcap, instantly began.
"Why, my friends, you all know Isaac Grimm, the Jew snuff merchant and
cigar maker, in Harbour Street. Well, Isaac had a brother, Ezekiel by
name, who carried on business in Curacao; you may have heard of him too.
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