The recognition they extended to him did not affect him deeply.

He was called Drummond, and had his place near the chairmen, whose humours he seemed to relish.
The ears of Mr.Raikes were less keen at the moment than Evan's, but his openness to ridicule was that of a man on his legs solus, amid a company sitting, and his sense of the same--when he saw himself the victim of it--acute.

His face was rather comic, and, under the shadow of embarrassment, twitching and working for ideas--might excuse a want of steadiness and absolute gravity in the countenances of others.
The chairman's neighbour, Drummond, whispered him 'Laxley will get up a row with that fellow.' 'It 's young Jocelyn egging him on,' said the chairman.
'Um!' added Drummond: 'it's the friend of that talkative rascal that 's dangerous, if it comes to anything.' Mr.Raikes perceived that his host desired him to conclude.

So, lifting his voice and swinging his arm, he ended: 'Allow me to propose to you the Fly in Amber.

In other words, our excellent host embalmed in brilliant ale! Drink him! and so let him live in our memories for ever!' He sat down very well contented with himself, very little comprehended, and applauded loudly.
'The Flyin' Number!' echoed Farmer Broadmead, confidently and with clamour; adding to a friend, when both had drunk the toast to the dregs, 'But what number that be, or how many 'tis of 'em, dishes me! But that 's ne'ther here nor there.' The chairman and host of the evening stood up to reply, welcomed by thunders--'There ye be, Mr.Tom! glad I lives to see ye!' and 'No names!' and 'Long life to him!' This having subsided, the chairman spoke, first nodding.