His worship the Mayor was then presented to the two noblemen and, discoursing amicably of the outlook on European politicks, the five great men threaded their way towards the principal table. There was a tremendous shuffling among the innumerable waiters as Mr. Daish urged them to unparalleled exertion. They ran hither and thither like recently fertile hens. One half of them pulled out chairs from the tables and the other half pushed them back again. Some fled bawling for the soup. Others conversed in excited whispers. At last the assembled company to the number of three hundred persons stood each member in the place he had selected. What caused a further delay? Why did Mr. Daish hurriedly wave back the white-capped cook bearing the first tureen? Through the doorway pattered little Mr. Archdeacon Conybeare. "I'm late," he muttered, "I know it, I'm aware of it. I'm late. Maria, my love, I'm late, I'm very late." The Beau was looking at the large clock below the gallery at the far end of the hall. "Will you ask a grace, Mr. Archdeacon," he said. The Mayor smote the table with a silver hammer as the parson slipped into his place. "For what we are going to receive ... my dear Mr. Ripple, 'tis no use to tell me the contrary, I know I am very late." The Publick Breakfast had begun. I think it was the great Dr. Johnson whose forehead while he ate was dabbled with perspiration and the veins of it red and swollen. At any rate the Mayor had a similar appearance. He devoured his food as if he feared the cherubs sporting in the gilded panels of the ceiling would descend and snatch it from his plate. Mr. Ripple ate very modishly. One would have said he had watched the honied meals of many butterflies. For all his fork's fastidious action, it managed to pick the best of a Fricassee. Rounds, ribs, and sirloins, he deplored. Sir Jeremy Dummer evidently felt that his sensibility to the honour awarded to him deserved practical gratitude. He eat voraciously. The old fighting spirit abode in him for a space and he handled his knife like his hanger. He slashed at every course that came along, but, accuracy being impaired by muscular fatigue, he was content to swallow much of his food whole. Sir Jeremy Dummer ate: Two plates of turtle soup. The better part of a codfish. The wing of a capon. The wing of a duck. The breast of a pullet. A hot buttered apple dumpling and two or three slices of ham which he had not noticed before. Sir Jeremy Dummer drank: Two tankards of old ale. One bottle of Madeira. Two bottles of Port. And on the following day, Sir Jeremy Dummer died. He had always been famous for trencher-play until condemned by Oboe to milky sustenance to which through twenty-one winter seasons he never willingly yielded. This commemoration of his abstinence was his opportunity and his revenge. Could he have made a worthier end? For my own part, I should not presume to say so.