Whereupon everybody flopped down on the seat nearest within reach.

Some found vacancies at once, others had to scamper frantically round in search of them, and finally, as the chairs were one fewer in number than the company, one luckless player was left out to enjoy the fun of those who remained in.
"All right," said Samuel, when the first round was decided, and a chair withdrawn in anticipation of the next; "I only nudged you to stop a bit sooner, Cruden.

The game will last till midnight if you give us such long doses." Doses! Reginald turned again to the piano and tried once more to lose himself in its comforting music.

He played a short German air of only four lines, which ended in a plaintive, wailing cadence.

Again the moment the music ceased he heard the scuffling and scampering and laughter behind him, and shouts of,-- "Polly's out! Polly's out!" "I say," said Shuckleford, as they stood ready for the next round, "give us a jingle, Cruden; `Pop goes the Weasel,' or something of that sort.
That last was like the tune the cow died of.