Solemn as this great occasion was, the Spirit of Comedy illumined it. Charles, the second footman, carrying two winebaskets, was in attendance. Fishpingle, need it be said, would have perished at the stake rather than entrust one bottle of the precious “Yellow Seal,” Cockburn’s 1868 vintage, to such a hobbledehoy. The wine-cupboard upstairs, which held the wine in everyday use, needed replenishing. Hence the presence of Charles, trembling with excitement at the privilege vouchsafed him. To fill his baskets and despatch their carrier was Fishpingle’s first and easiest task. Then, in silence, Squire and butler approached the sacred bin. At this moment such a crash as is rarely heard except in farce or pantomime rang through the vaulted chambers. Fishpingle spoke first to his startled master. “Charles has fallen from the top of the stairway to the bottom.” Sir Geoffrey could be trusted to show his quality in such emergencies. He knew that every bottle of wine was smashed, and the wine was good wine. He said suavely: “I hope, Ben, that the boy has not hurt himself.” Fishpingle was not at his best. He said almost rancorously: “I hope, Sir Geoffrey, that he has broken his neck, but I’ll go and inquire.” He returned with the information that Charles had pitched on his head, and therefore none the worse for his misadventure. Two bottles of the “Yellow Seal” were taken to Fishpingle’s room. Sir Geoffrey led the way with one, Fishpingle followed with t’other. Alfred brought old Waterford glass decanters from the pantry. The rites began. After carefully drawing the corks, Fishpingle inserted into the necks of the bottles two fids of cotton-wool soaked in alcohol. The alcohol—according to Fishpingle—destroyed any fungus growth between the neck of the bottle and the cork. A small quantity of wine was then poured into a glass, and solemnly smelt by each man in turn. They smiled ecstatically. Two fresh glasses were filled to the brim, and held up to the light. “Beautiful,” murmured the Squire. “Brilliant,” added Fishpingle. “Master Lionel, God bless him!” said the Squire. Fishpingle’s voice quavered, as he repeated the toast. “Master Lionel, God bless him!” They sipped the wine, winking at each other. “What a breed, Ben!” “What vinosity, Sir Geoffrey!” He looked at the nectar with a melancholy smile, as he continued: “There was a time, Sir Geoffrey, when a gentleman drank a decanter of this after dinner. And now, one bottle amongst four men.” “Not if I’m of that party,” replied the Squire briskly. “Sit ye down, Ben, sit ye down. We’ll have a second glass presently and another toast.”