"Bill you old muff, the half-hour hasn't struck." "Here, Bill, drink
some cocktail." "Sing us a song, old boy." "Don't you wish you may
get the table?" Bill drank the proffered cocktail not unwillingly, and
putting down the empty glass, remonstrated. "Now gentlemen, there's only
ten minutes to prayers, and we must get the hall straight."
Shouts of "No, no!" and a violent effort to strike up "Billy Taylor" for
the third time. Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke, who got up and
stopped the noise. "Now then, lend a hand, you youngsters, and get the
tables back; clear away the jugs and glasses. Bill's right. Open
the windows, Warner." The boy addressed, who sat by the long ropes,
proceeded to pull up the great windows, and let in a clear, fresh rush
of night air, which made the candles flicker and gutter, and the fires
roar. The circle broke up, each collaring his own jug, glass, and
song-book; Bill pounced on the big table, and began to rattle it away to
its place outside the buttery door. The lower-passage boys carried off
their small tables, aided by their friends; while above all, standing
on the great hall-table, a knot of untiring sons of harmony made night
doleful by a prolonged performance of "God Save the King." His Majesty
King William the Fourth then reigned over us, a monarch deservedly
popular amongst the boys addicted to melody, to whom he was chiefly
known from the beginning of that excellent if slightly vulgar song in
which they much delighted,--
"Come, neighbours all, both great and small,
Perform your duties here,
And loudly sing, 'Live Billy, our king,'
For bating the tax upon veer.
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