The Astonishing History of Troy Town | Page 6

"We had hoped--I
say we had hoped--to have seen your good lady also among us to-day:
but doubtless when 'The Bower' is prepared--the--ahem! the bird will
fly thither."
Vociferous applause followed this impromptu trope, and for some
moments the Admiral's voice was completely drowned.
"I hope and trust," he went on, as soon as silence was restored, "that
she enjoys good health."
The stranger looked more perplexed than ever.
"But be that as it may--be that, I say, as it may, my pleasant duty is now
discharged. In the name of my fellow-Trojans and in my own name I
bid you a hearty welcome to 'The Bower.'" (Loud and continuous
cheering, during which the Admiral handed his card with a flourish,
and mopped his brow.)

"I can assure you," replied the stranger after a pause, "that I am deeply
sensible of your kindness--" (The cheering was renewed.) "While
conscious," he went on, "that I have done nothing to deserve it. In point
of fact, I think you must all be labouring under some ridiculous
delusion."
"What do you mean, sir?" gasped the Admiral. "Do you mean to say
you are not the new tenant of this delightful residence?" Then the
speaker waved his hand in the direction of "The Bower."
"Certainly I am not."
"Then, damme, sir! who are you?" cried the Admiral, whose temper
was, as we know, short.
"My name is Fogo," replied the stranger. "Here is my card--Philip
Fogo--at your service."
Even Miss Limpenny, with the first-floor window of No. 1 timidly
lifted to admit the Admiral's eloquence; even the three Misses Buzza,
arranged in a row behind the parlour blinds of No. 2, and gazing with
fond pride upon their papa; even Mrs. Buzza, nervously clasping her
hands on the upper storey;--could not but perceive that something
dreadful was happening. The Admiral's face turned from crimson to
purple; he positively choked.
The situation needed a solution. A wag among the crowd hit upon it.
"Tell th' Admiral, some of 'ee: what day es et?"
"Fust of April!" cried a voice, then another; and then--
Then the throng broke into roar upon roar of inextinguishable laughter.
The whole deluded town turned and cast its April folly, as a garment,
upon the Admiral's shoulders. It was in vain that he stamped and raved
and swore. They only held their sides and laughed the louder.
The credit of Trojan humour was saved. With a final oath the Admiral

dashed through his front gate and into the house. The volgus infidum
formed in procession again, and marched back with shouts of
merriment; the popularis aura of the five-and-twenty fifers resumed
the "Conquering Hero," and Mr. Fogo was left standing alone in the
middle of the road.
CHAPTER III.
OF A BLUE-JERSEYED MAN THAT WOULD HOIST NO MORE
BRICKS; AND A NIGHTCAP THAT HAD NO BUSINESS TO BE
WHERE IT WAS.
No one acquainted with the character of that extraordinary town will be
surprised when I say that, within an hour after the occurrences related
in the last chapter, Troy had resumed its workday quiet. By two o'clock
nothing was to be heard but the tick-tack of mallets in the ship-building
yards, the puffing of the steam-tug, the rattle of hawsers among the
vessels out in the harbour, and the melodious "Woo-hoo!" of a crew at
capstan or windlass. Troy in carnival and Troy sober are as opposite,
you must know, as the poles. Fun is all very well, but business is
business, and Troy is a trading port with a character to keep up: for who
has not heard the bye-word-- "Working like a Trojan"?
At two o'clock on this same day a little schooner lay alongside the town
quay, busily discharging bricks. That is to say, a sunburnt man,
blue-jerseyed and red with brick-dust, leisurely turned a windlass
which let down an empty bucket and brought it up full. Another
blue-jerseyed man, also sunburnt and red with brick-dust, then pulled it
on shore, emptied and returned it; and the operation was repeated. A
choleric little man, of about fifty, presumably the proprietor of the
bricks, stood on the edge of the quay, and swore alternately at the man
with the windlass and the man ashore.
"Look 'ere," said the man at the windlass, after a bit. "Stop cussin'. This
ain't a hurdy-gurdy, and if you expec's music you'll have to toss us a
copper."
The owner of the bricks swore worse than ever.

Round went the windlass as leisurely as might be and another bucketful
was hoisted ashore. The man on deck spat on his hands, and broke into
cheerful song:--
"Was you iver to Que-bec, Bonnie laddie, Hieland laddie Was you iver
to Que-bec, Rousing timber over the deck? Hey my bonny laddie!
Wur-roo! my heart's--"
The rage of the little