Some even
proposed to ring the church bells and fire the cannon at the
harbour's mouth; but the ringers and artillerymen preferred to come
and see the sight. As it was, the "George" floated proudly from the
church tower, and the Fife and Drum Temperance Band stood ready at
the corner of East Street. All Troy, in fact, was on tip-toe.
Meanwhile, as few in the crowd possessed Burke or Debrett, the
information that passed from mouth to mouth was diverse and peculiar,
but, as was remarked by a laundress in the crowd to a friend: "He may
be the Pope o' Rome, my dear, an' he may be the Dook o' Wellington,
an' not a soul here wud know t'other from which no mor'n if he was
Adam. All I says is--the Lord send he's a professin' Christian, an'
has his linen washed reg'lar. My! What a crush! I only wish my boy
Jan was here to see; but he's stayin' at home, my dear, cos his
father means to kill the pig to-day, an' the dear child do so love to
hear'n screech."
The Admiral, who happened by the merest chance to be sauntering along
the Station Road this morning, in his best blue frock-coat with a
flower in the buttonhole, corrected some of the rumours, but without
much success. Finding the throng so thick, he held a long debate
between curiosity and dignity. The latter won, and he returned to
No.
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