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Being triple-breasted allowed the goodly Saint to please everybody at once. Sadly, few of us are so gifted. The Duke of Richmond has managed to upset an huge number of people today by proposing a Bill for Parliamentary Reform. He advocates universal adult male suffrage. As a Freemason, I can hardly object to this as it is the system that we employ. On the other hand… The annual period of election has come round in the Stonic Lodge. A number of the Brethren have been kept from us in recent months by various public and private avocations: engagements, marriages, births, imprisonments for debt, that sort of thing. The result is that our line of succession has been severed and an unseemly leadership contest has ensued. Our Senior Warden is in the Colonies and is not due to return until the American rebellion has been quelled. This could take some time. Our Junior Warden has just become a father and so is hesitant about taking the chair for at least another year. This makes plain that it is his first child else he would realise that his life will not be his own for at least two decades! We must turn to our worthy Past Masters. A trio of them have thrown their hats into the ring, as the saying goes. None is willing to give way and all have support from factions within the Lodge. A contest between two could be decided simply by ballot, but a three way contest is far more difficult to resolve. Over a beaker of Malmsey, Brother Secretary suggested to me that we might follow the example of the College of Cardinals. Every brother would write the name of his favoured candidate on a slip of paper, the Secretary would count them up, overseen by the Treasurer, and the Brother with the most votes would be proclaimed Master Elect. I pointed out that the flaw in this plan lay in the fact that, in all probability, the two losers, between them, would have more votes than the winner: a Minority Master, a Hung Lodge! The prospect was too awful to contemplate. Brother Secretary gulped down another beaker and pondered the problem. We could keep voting until one of the candidates achieved a two-thirds majority, he ventured. I assured him that the American rebellion will be quelled quicker. Surely, I suggested, the simplest and fairest way to resolve this would be to write the three names down on slips of paper, put them into one of the hats that had been thrown into the ring and get our newest Entered Apprentice, hoodwinked, naturally, to draw the lot. Who could possibly object to that? I put the proposition to the three brethren concerned. They all objected. ‘The election of the Master of a Masonic Lodge,’ I was informed, in sepulchral tones, ‘cannot be left to blind chance.’ I managed to restrain myself from delivering the obvious riposte. So. We could get them to stand in the middle of the room and ask them questions on Masonic topics. After ten questions, the one with the least correct answers would be eliminated and then the process repeated to determine the winner, but who would be willing to accept responsibility for setting the questions? Not Lightfoote, that’s for sure. Who knows twenty questions on Masonic topics? Not Lightfoote, that’s for sure. Gloom descended on Brother Secretary and me, a gloom which even the gaiety of the tap room of the Yorick Tavern could scarce dispel. ‘Come along,’ said I, ‘have another. Let’s have a bottle of Yardy’s.’ Brother Secretary shook his head. ‘I’ve had, enough,’ he replied, hopelessly. I wasn’t sure if he meant that he didn’t want a bumper of Yardy’s or that he was resigning his commission. Either way, it was bad news and sad. ‘Now, now,’ said I, ‘that’s not what we expect to hear from a Brother Stonic!’ Our eyes met, we smiled, the port was brought: the problem was solved. The contest took place later that evening. Worshipful Brothers Babcock, Entwhistle and Lofts managed the first three bottles without blinking, but by the end of the fourth, W.Bro Babcock was flagging. He passed out halfway through bottle five. Six was steadily swallowed as Entwhistle and Lofts stood eye to eye and toe to toe. Number seven proved to be the decider. In the final furlong, Entwhistle’s whistle finally became too wet and he slumped to the floor, smiling even in defeat. Worshipful Brother Lofts, Master Elect, raised his glass aloft and drained it to the dregs. We cheered him to the echo… And here’s to his health in a song: The goodly Saint Gwen had three nipples, And wasn’t averse to a tipple; When the landlord enquired What the lady required She simply replied ‘Mine’s a triple!’
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