"What is that?"

"That's Indian. You buy a lot of Indian or halfbreed loafers with
beaver-skins and rum, go to the Mount of the Burning Arrows, and these
fellows dance round you and call you one of the lost race, the Mighty Men
of the Kimash Hills. And they'll do that while the rum lasts. Meanwhile
you get to think yourself a devil of a swell--you and the gods! . . .
And now we had better listen to this bungowawen, hadn't we?"

The room was full, and on the platform were gentlemen come to support
Sir William Belward. They were interested to see how Gaston would
carry it off.

Mr. Babbs's speech was like a thousand others by the same kind of man.
More speeches--some opposing--followed, and at last came the chairman to
close the meeting. He addressed himself chiefly to a bunch of farmers,
artisans, and labouring-men near. After some good-natured raillery at
political meetings in general, the bigotry of party, the difficulty in
getting the wheat from the chaff, and some incisive thrusts at those who
promised the moon and gave a green cheese, who spent their time in
berating their opponents, he said:

"There's a game that sailors play on board ship--men-o'-war and sailing-
ships mostly. I never could quite understand it, nor could any officers
ever tell me--the fo'castle for the men and the quarter-deck for the
officers, and what's English to one is Greek to the other. Well, this
was all I could see in the game. They sat about, sometimes talking,
sometimes not. All at once a chap would rise and say, 'Allow me to
speak, me noble lord,' and follow this by hitting some one of the party
wherever the blow got in easiest--on the head, anywhere! [Laughter.]