Mr.Swipes, the head gardener for so many years, held an estate of freehold in the garden--although he had no head, and would never be a gardener, till the hanging gardens of Babylon should be hung on the top of the tower of Babel--with a vested remainder to his son, and a contingent one to all descendants.

Yet this man, although his hands were generally in his pockets, had not enough sense of their linings to feel that continuance, usage, institution, orderly sequence, heredity, and such like, were the buttons of his coat and the texture of his breeches, and the warmth of his body inside them.

Therefore he never could hold aloof from the Free and Frisky gatherings, and accepted the chair upon Bumper-nights, when it was a sinecure benefice.
This was a Bumper-night, and in the chair sat Mr.Swipes, discharging gracefully the arduous duties of the office, which consisted mainly in calling upon members for a speech, a sentiment, or a song, and in default of mental satisfaction, bodily amendment by a pint all round.
But as soon as Dan Tugwell entered the room, the Free and Friskies with one accord returned to loftier business.

Mr.Swipes, the gay Liber of the genial hour, retired from the chair, and his place was taken by a Liberal--though the name was not yet invented--estranged from his own godfather.

This was a hard man, who made salt herrings, and longed to cure everything fresh in the world.
Dan, being still a very tender youth, and quite unaccustomed to public speaking, was abashed by these tokens of his own importance, and heartily wished that he had stopped at home.