The trap-door had indeed escaped the manager’s observation. As the house was new to him, and the ceiling being newly white-washed, the opening was scarcely perceptible. Vexed to be out-generalled, and still more vexed to have it remarked, Archer poured forth a volley of incoherent exclamations and reproaches against those who were thus so soon discouraged by a trifle; and groping for the tinder-box, he asked if anything could be easier than to strike a light again. {262} The light appeared. But at the moment that it made the tinder-box visible, another shower from above, aimed, and aimed exactly, at the tinder-box, drenched it with water, and rendered it totally unfit for further service. Archer in a fury dashed it to the ground. And now for the first time he felt what it was to be the unsuccessful head of a party. He heard in his turn the murmurs of a discontented, changeable populace; and recollecting all his bars and bolts, and ingenious contrivances, he was more provoked at their blaming him for this one only oversight than he was grieved at the disaster itself. “Oh, my hair is all wet!” cried one, dolefully. “Wring it, then,” said Archer. “My hand’s cut with your broken glass,” cried another. “Glass!” cried a third; “mercy! is there broken glass? and it’s all about, I suppose, amongst the supper; and I had but one bit of bread all the time.” “Bread!” cried Archer; “eat if you want it. Here’s a piece here, and no glass near it.” “It’s all wet, and I don’t like dry bread by itself; that’s no feast.” “Heigh-day! What, nothing but moaning and grumbling! If these are the joys of a _Barring Out_,” cried Townsend, “I’d rather be snug in my bed. I expected that we should have sat up till twelve o’clock, talking, and laughing, and singing.” “So you may still; what hinders you?” said Archer. “Sing, and we’ll join you, and I should be glad those fellows overhead heard us singing. Begin, Townsend— “‘Come now, all ye social Powers, Spread your influence o’er us’— Or else— “‘Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never will be slaves.’” Nothing can be more melancholy than forced merriment. In vain they roared in chorus. In vain they tried to appear gay. It would not do. The voices died away, and dropped off one by one. They had each provided himself with a great-coat to sleep upon; but now, in the dark, there was a peevish scrambling contest for the coats, and half the company, in very bad humour, stretched themselves upon the benches for the night. There is great pleasure in bearing anything that has the appearance of hardship as long as there is any glory to be acquired by it: but when people feel themselves foiled, there is no further pleasure in endurance; and if, in their misfortune, there is any mixture of the ridiculous, the motives for heroism are immediately destroyed. Dr. Middleton had probably considered this in the choice he made of his first attack.