"And you call yourselves
gentlemen!" said Grim in disgust--he had been overlooked for the time
being.
"I propose Sharpe," said Wilson, dusting himself. "He does no end swell
construes from 'Ovid.'"
"I second that," said Rogers. "He has long hair. Poets always have. Milton
had."
"That bit is _side,_" said the chairman, judicially. "Those who are
in favour of Sharpe doing the poetry hold--Carried, _nem. con._"
"_Nem. con_. is side too, Grim," said Rogers.
"Shut up, you mule! Sharpe, you'll have to do the poem."
"I say, you fellows, it will be horse work," said Sharpe, disconsolately.
"There isn't a rhyme to Biffen's."
"Oh! isn't there? What about 'spiffing'?"
Sharpe choked.
"Griffin."
"Tiffin."
Lamb squeaked out "stiff 'un," and some one gently led him out--even
Biffen's fags caved in at that.
"Sharpe, you're booked for number two, old man. Gentlemen, I direct your
attention to number three--Corker's did Indian clubs and the gold-fish
dodge."
"Oh, well," said Wilson, "we're not going to copy Corker's, anyhow. Let's
do dumb-bells and something else."
"I propose that Wilson does the something else," said Cherry,
good-naturedly.
Wilson said he was ready to do something to Cherry any time that was
convenient. Rogers suggested that they ask the niggers to do something on
the bars, and Sharpe seconded it, so the dervishes were written to and
promised a scragging if they didn't turn themselves inside out for the
glory of Biffen's concert.
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