"Things are more or less arranged," he said, "so far as our city fathers are capable of arranging anything. The place is to be called Crake Hall, which I think is right, and Crake himself is coming over from America for the opening, which I call sporting of him. Old Broxey" (The Most Noble the Marquis of Broxborough, the Lord Lieutenant of our County) "will perform the opening ceremony. That is to say, he will advance up the steps in the presence of the multitude and knock three times upon the closed doors of the Hall. A solemn pause will follow, to work up the excitement. Then the donor, who will be standing inside, wearing a top-hat for the first time in his life--" "Rector, I have frequently warned you that your ribald tongue will some day lose you your job." "Never mind that. It's a poor heart that never rejoices, and I am too fat to be serious all the time, anyhow. Well, after the appointed interval of silence Crake will open a kind of peep-hole in the oaken door, and say: 'Who goes there?' or something of that kind. Broxey, if he is still awake, will reply: 'The Citizens of this Ancient Borough,' or words to that effect. Then the doors will be thrown open--assuming that they will open; but you know what our local contractors are--and Crake will be revealed in his top-hat, and will say: 'Welcome, Stranger!' or, 'Walk right in, boys!' or, 'Watch your step!' or something like that, and will hand the key of the Institute to Broxey, who will probably lose it." "I see. And then to lunch at the Town Hall, I suppose?" "Not so fast. Remember this is a Cathedral city: the Dean and Chapter must be given an opportunity to put their oar in. The Dean will speak his piece, and then I understand that the Choir, who are to be concealed somewhere behind one of the doors, will create a brief disturbance. After that the Town will assert itself, as against the County and the Close." "What is their stunt going to be?" "An Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks to Crake." "That seems reasonable. But who is going to compose it?" "I have already done so, by request. It is not half bad," said the Rector modestly. "Who is going to read it? The Mayor?" "The Mayor is an imperfect creature, but he possesses one superlative quality: he harbours no illusions about his own ability to grapple with the letter H. He declines to read the Address. Most of the Corporation are in the same boat--though they don't all admit it." "Why don't you read it yourself?" "Trades-Union rules forbid. If I read it, it would be regarded as the propaganda of the Established Church. The forces of Town and Chapel would combine to fall upon me and crush me. No, we must have a citizen--a citizen of credit and renown, locally known and esteemed." The Rector eyed me furtively. "I suppose _you_, now-- "Not on your life!" I replied hastily. "Why not?"