At the appointed hour horns sounded and all sat down to table in the calm evening light. At the head were the King and Queen, side by side. To the right and left sat Sylvia and Joe, and after them came the best people, then the ordinary Snergs in order of importance. At the extreme end of the table, somewhere in the suburbs, sat Gorbo. That’s what they thought of him.
I am happy to report that the Queen kept a careful watch on what the two children ate or else there might have been serious trouble for them later, the food being of a very grown-up sort. They were given each a very tiny mug of mead and she told them to go slow with it. (The Snerg youngsters, by the way, can put away an imperial pint and still behave. Use is everything). It was all very jolly for them to find themselves treated with so much pomp and circumstance, and they felt that they had some glorious things to tell the other kids when they arrived home. There occurred one unfortunate incident, however, which helped to reduce any tendency towards swelled heads. They had heard before that the Snergs considered it shocking bad form to feed dogs when at table—every race has its own peculiar ideas on behaviour—but when two nice friendly dogs, rather like retrievers, came one on each side of Sylvia and watched every mouthful that she took, she was greatly tempted to give them a bit, especially as their mouths watered so much that she could actually hear the drips. It was when one of them began a gentle moaning sound that she could stand it no longer, so just when she thought the King and Queen were looking the other way she slipped a piece of meat into his mouth. He snapped it up and lashed the floor with his tail; the other dog instantly sprang up and put two paws on her lap and gazed into her eyes. In an instant all the talk had stopped and everybody stared at her.
It was a horrible moment, and she became crimson. But the King came to her aid with true politeness. He cut a piece of knuckle end of lamb and flung it to his favourite hound, and the situation was saved. (The Prince of Wales, I believe, once took a good swig out of his finger-bowl to put an unpolished guest at his ease.) But it was necessary to have all dogs removed after this, as they came crowding up, full of hope.
There was some good music from harps, and the jester asked some clever riddles, one of which was new. A young Snerg who had a really fine tenor voice sang, “Give me thy gold, I ask no more,” very movingly. But perhaps the most delightful (though slightly embarrassing) moment was when, at a given signal, the whole push stood up and drained a cup of mead to “Our Guests.”
The declining sun shone round a corner of the street; the scene was now in mellow light and shade. Snergs began to loll against each other and reach lazily for the nut-crackers. From the end of the table, 486 feet away, came shouts of unseemly mirth: Gorbo, that ass, had made a bet that he would stand on his head on a pyramid of mead pots, and the crash was terrific. The King sent a stern word that there was to be not so much of it. The sudden discovery that Joe and Sylvia were both sound asleep in their little arm-chairs caused no particular break in the proceedings. They were carried to the Royal House by motherly old Snergs and tucked up in bed, and the feasting and joviality went on.