The Fourth Quarter
music burst into the room, attended by a lot of neighbours screaming “A Happy New Year, Meg!” “A Happy Wedding!” “Many of ’em!” and other fragmentary good wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private friend of Trotty’s) then stepped forward, and said:
“Trotty Veck, my boy! It’s got about, that your daughter is going to be married to-morrow. There an’t a soul that knows you that don’t wish you well, or that knows her and don’t wish her well. Or that knows you both, and don’t wish you both all the happiness the New Year can bring. And here we are, to play it in and dance it in, accordingly.”
Which was received with a general shout. The Drum was rather drunk, by-the-bye; but never mind.
“What a happiness it is. I’m sure,” said Trotty, “to be so esteemed! How kind and neighbourly you are! It’s all along of my dear daughter. She deserves it!”
They were ready for a dance in half a second (Meg and Richard at the top); and the Drum was on the very brink of leathering away with all his power; when a combination of prodigious sounds was heard outside, and a good-humoured comely woman of some fifty years of age, or thereabouts, came running in, attended by a man bearing a stone pitcher of terrific size, and closely followed by the marrow-bones and cleavers, and the bells; not the Bells, but a portable collection on a frame.
Trotty said, “It’s Mrs. Chickenstalker!” And sat down and beat his knees again.
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