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Rh poor old Pidgeon jammed between two casks. We both dived for him, but he was too firmly fixed and already past our help. The sharks soon finished him, and 'twas an ugly sight to see. And now, having spun my yarn, with too much truth in it, by the by, you may easily apply it. You see Pidgeon went down and nothing could get him on his legs again: just my case to night. But if you will allow me, as I have a decided objection to stopping the bottle, I will give you a toast which you will please to drink in solemn silence—'To the immortal memory of poor old Pidgeon the Darkey'"

At this peculiarly unfortunate moment, the enthusiastic gentleman who, it will be remembered, retired beneath the table early in the evening, recovering his consciousness, and hearing a toast proposed (the subject was quite of secondary consideration to him), struck up at the top of his voice "For he's a jolly good fellow." A few cries of "Turn him out," were soon drowned by the majority of the assembly, who improved the opportunity by chiming in with the chorus, and exhausting a little of their superfluous excitement.

"Solemn silence, if you please, gentlemen," roared the chairman, thumping the table with such energy as to set the gold in the salver chinking. The more the chairman exerted his authority, the less attention was paid to him, so like a sensible man he relinquished his post, and his voice was soon heard in the chorus raised to as high a pitch as his neighbours. But the same words to the same tune repeated over and over again became monotonous, so the company, by easy gradations, changed both. "He's a jolly good fellow" gradually developed itself into " We won't go home till morning," and that popular matutinal song was transformed into something else. The finale was made up of everything in part and nothing in