Mykelborne lifted an imperious hand.
‘Mus Bailey,’ said Mykelborne, ‘twas at eight o’clock your mother brung ee forth, I’ll ’low?’
‘Eh?’ said Mr Bailey, over-acting his surprise a little. ‘Well, yes, I fancy you’re right.’
‘You fancy!’ said Mykelborne. ‘He fancies,’ he remarked to his neighbours with bitter sarcasm. ‘Now listee, Rasmus.’ He became a little stern. ‘You telled me, plain as plain, a week agoo today, that you was born at eight o’clock. Eight striken, says you. You was standen same as it might be there, and I was sitten as near as makes no matter where I be sitten now. At eight striken, Dick, you says, my mother brung me forth.’
‘You’re in the right of it, Dick,’ said Mr Bailey hastily. ‘Twas eight o’clock sartain sure. I remember well enough now.’
‘Ah,’ said Coachy, ‘then you’ve an owdacious good memory, Mus Bailey, young though you be.’
‘Eight o’clock striken,’ said Mykelborne with unction, ‘this day seventy-five year agoo.’
‘This very day? So tis,’ agreed Mr Bailey. ‘Bless me, how time flies, to be sure!’
‘Mus Bailey,’ said Mykelborne, half-rising,’ we’re all rough men here.’ But he broke off to explain in a confidential aside: ‘This bain’t the speech yet, Rasmus. Daun’t think ut. What I be sayen, and tis not in the speechifying way, is we’re all rough men here. But if so be your lady mistus would do us so proud as to come among us for five martal minutes, we’d take ut countable kind in she. Remember the weaker vessel to keep ut holy, as Postle Paul says. And he knawed, did old Postle.’
‘Certainly, Dick, certainly!’ Mr Bailey vanished into his private parlour, and so quickly returned with Mrs Bailey on his arm that it was clear she had needed no persuasion. She smiled radiantly on the company, and bowed in response to the gratified murmurs that welcomed her.
Mykelborne had by now possessed himself of the token, which he did his best to conceal behind his back, keeping his other hand free for such oratorical gestures as might be needed. ‘Mus Bailey and Mistus Bailey . . . What be the time, Abel Sweet?’ With this question he affirmed the importance and dignity of the occasion. Henceforward, due order must be observed, and every man perform his proper duty and no other: the spokesman was dedicated to speech, the timekeeper to observation of the clock.
‘He do want a minute yet,’ said Sweet.
That minute was the longest of the day. Bright beads appeared on the brow of the frustrated orator. Mr Bailey gazed unhappily at the floor, and Mrs Bailey’s smile grew wan. But at last, with dramatic emphasis, the hour of release struck. Eight o’clock.
Sweet counted each stroke. One . . . two . . . three . . .
‘Tis eight o’clock now, Mus Mykelborne,’ said Sweet.
‘He do knaw that, you gurt gummut!’ said Growcock. ‘He’ve a pair of ears, anta?’
‘Hush, my coneys,’ said Coachy Timms. ‘Take a deep drink, for there be the speech to come now, and no chance for swalleren.’
‘Mus Bailey and Mistus Bailey,’ said Mykelborne, ‘we be all rough folkses here and ignorant sinners, and you an owdacious eddicated man. But seeing you was born seventy-five year agoo at eight o’clock striken, as it might be this very minute——’
‘Nay, tis past the hour now, Mus Mykelborne,’ Sweet corrected him.
‘—as it might be this very minute, Abel Sweet.
‘So he has!’ said Growcock.
‘As sure as I sit here,’ corroborated Sweet.
‘Ay,’ said Coachy, nodding sagaciously, ‘he be a likely youngster, sure enough.’