Mason, Dixon, and Maskelyne are in a punch house on Cock Hill called "The Moon," sitting like an allegorickal Sculpture titl'd, Awkwardness. It is not easy to say which of them is contributing more to sustaining the Tableau. Mason is suspicious of Maskelyne, Maskelyne struggles not to offend Mason, and Dixon and Maskelyne have been estrang'd from the instant Dixon, learning of Maskelyne's Residence at Pembroke College, Cambridge, brought up the name of Christopher Smart. "Durham Lad...? He became a Fellow at Pembroke...?" A Gust of Panic crosses Maskelyne's face briefly, then his Curatickal Blank returns. "Mr. Smart was our perennial Seaton Prize-winner.—  He left two years after I arriv'd,— our Intimacy being limited to Meal-times, when I brought his Food to the Fellows' Table, and fetch'd away his soil'd Napery and his gnaw'd Bones. Sometimes, after they'd all gone, we of the Scullery would eat their Leavings,— his may have been among 'em, I did not distinguish closely,— I was a Lad, and not all aware of how uncom?fortable a Life it must have been. To live at Cambridge, to step where Newton stepp'd? I would have become a servant's servant."
"Newton is my Deity," Dixon rather blurts, ignoring Maskelyne's efforts to show polite astonishment by raising one eyebrow without also raising the other, "and Mr. Smart, why I knew him when I was small, a rather older Lad, who came to Raby on his School Vacations, his Father being Steward of the Vane Estates down in Kent, You see, as was mah Great-Uncle George of Raby." Maskelyne now has his Eye-balls roll'd to Heaven, as if praying for Wing'd Escape. "So both of us quickly learn'd our way 'round the Larders, the trysting places, the passageways inside the Walls, where our Errands often took us, Mr. Kit's being usually to or from the Chapel. I can recall no-one marking in him any unkind moment,— tho' he did seem, each time he return'd to Raby, a bit more preoccupied."
"In 'fifty-six, I believe, he was confin'd in a Hospital for the Insane," says Maskelyne, his Field-Creature's Eyes a-sparkle. "And releas'd, I have heard, the Year before last, mad as when he went in."
"Why aye," Dixon grimly beams, "it must have been thah' Raby Cas?tle, that did it to him...?"
"Well it certainly wasn't Pembroke," Maskelyne sniffs. "Indeed, 'twas only when poor Smart gave up Cambridge, that his mind began to leave him."
"Away from those healthy Surroundings...?" Dixon replies, with clench'd Amiability.
There is Commotion as the Landlord, Mr. Blackner, and several Reg?ulars, leaning to hear, lose all idea of their centers of Gravity, and stag?gering in the puddles of Ale that commonly decorate the Floor of The Moon, go crashing among the furniture.
Mason, as if newly arriv'd, speaks at last. "Forget not London itself, as a pre-eminent author of Madness,— Greenwich to Grub-Street, the Place is not for ev'ryone,— drawn tho' we be to the grandeur, the hun?dred Villages strewn all up and down the great Inlet from the Sea, and the wide World beyond,— yet for many, the Cost, how great."
Maskelyne, choosing to hear in this a rebuke, snaps, "Perhaps too many damn'd Gothickal Scribblers about, far too many's what did for Mr. Smart," seeming in his turn to allude to Mason's earlier-announc'd pref?erences in Entertainment.
As Mason considers some reply, Dixon gallantly fills in. "Why, Grub-Street Pub-Street, Sir. The Ghastly Fop? Vampyrs of Covent Garden? Come, come. Worth a dozen of any Tom. Jones, Sir."
This receives Maskelyne's careful Smirk. He fancies it a Smile, but 'tis an Attitude of the Mouth only,— the eyes do not engage in it, being off upon business of their own. The impression is of unrelenting wari?ness. "I'd expected such to lie up Mr. Mason's Lane,— hadn't suppos'd your own tastes to run there as well. Excellent way to pass those Obless Nights, I'd imagine, reading each to the other?"
Mr. Blackner has appear'd. "I always fancied the one about the Ital?ian with no Head, that'd be, now, Count Senzacapo, do any of you know that one?"
"Excellent choice, Sir," Dixon as it seems cheerily, "— that Episode with the three peasant girls,—
- and those Illustrations!" The Lads lewdly chuckling.
"Yet surely," Maskelyne all but whining, "there's far too much of it about? Encouraging," his Voice dropping, "all these melancholick peo?ple." He gestures 'round the Room with his head. "This Island, espe?cially,... is full of them. Six months I've been here,— too many idle Minutes to be fill'd, soon pile up, topple, and overwhelm the healthiest Mind,- "
"Sirius Business," cackles the Proprietor, sliding away to other Mis?chief.
"Damn the fellow," Maskelyne clutching his Head.
"Something else coming, here," Dixon advises.
Mason looks up. "Aahhrr! the Natives from the Kitchen,— Maske?lyne! what is it, a Cannibal Sacrifice?—
"No!" Maskelyne screams, "Worse!"
"Worse?" Dixon murmurs, by which time all can see the Candles upon the great iced Cake, being borne out to them as its Escort burst into "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."
Mr. Blackner brandishes an invisible Spoon. "Assembl'd it myself, Sir, tho' my Apprentice here did the Icing."
"They found out!" whispers Maskelyne, "- - but how? Do I talk in my sleep, whilst they listen at the Door? Why would I mention my birthday in my sleep? 'Twas last week, anyway."
"Congratulations, much Joy," wish Mason and Dixon.
"Twenty-nine's Fell Shadow! 0, inhospitably final year of any Pre?tense to Youth, its Dreams now, how wither'd away.. .tho' styl'd a Prime, yet bid'st thou Adieu to the Prime of Life!...There,— there, in the Sty?gian Mists of Futurity, loometh the dread Thirty,— Transition unspeak?able! Prime so soon fallen, thy Virtue so easily broken, into a Number divisible,— penetrable!— by six others!" At each of Maskelyne's dis-
 mal Apostrophes, the Merriment in the Room takes another step up in Loudness, tho' muffl'd in Cake. The Ale at The Moon, brew'd with the runoff from up-country, into whose further ingredients no one has ever inquir'd closely, keeps arriving, thanks to Maskelyne, now fully a-bawl,— "Fourth Decade of Life! thy Gates but a brief Year ahead,— tho' in this place, a Year can seem a Century,— what hold'st thou for the superannuated?"
"Marriage!" shouts a Sailor.
"Death!"
"The Morn!" All the Pewter rings with dour Amusement.
"Ye're a cheery lot for being so melancholick," Maskelyne raising his Tankard. "When are you leaving? I'll miss you."
Mason and Dixon have been looking over at each other in some Agi?tation. When Maskelyne at last takes himself outdoors, Dixon sits up briskly,— "Just reviewing this,— I am to leave you for at least three months in the company of this Gentleman? Is than' more or less,—
"Dixon.—  The Sector...doesn't...work."
"Whah'...!"
"The Sisson instrument,— someone's put the Plumb-line on wrong. The change he's looking for in the position of Sirius, would span but a few seconds of Arc,— yet the Error owing to the Plumb-line is much greater,— enough to submerge utterly the Result he seeks. Yet he con?tinues here under Royal Society orders,— as now, apparently, do we."
"Tha talk like a sober man."
"Who can get drunk in this terrible place?"
"Cock Ale Tomorrow! Cock Ale Tomorrow!" screams a Malay running into the Room, holding by the Feet a dead Fighting-Cock trailing its last Blood in splashes like Characters Death would know how to read.
"Why, then 'tis damn'd Bencoolen all over again."
"With as little freedom to demur. Yet I might find a way to fix his Plumb-line for him."
"Would thee at least let me have a look at it? Before I leave, thah'
"Pray you, do not even bring up the Topick of Instruments with him. The one he's oblig'd to go on with, will he nill he, has far more than money invested in it.”
"Nonetheless, 'tis the Friendly thing to do,— I'm John Bird's Field Rep, aren't I,— certainly know my way 'round a Sector,— tricks with Beeswax and Breath that few have even heard of,—
Back comes Maskelyne, fussing with his Queue. "Think about it!" Mason whispers in some panick, as the other Astronomer locates his Seat, sits, and peers at them suspiciously.
Dixon with a beefy grimace meant to convey righteousness, "Nah,— I'm going to ask him."
"Fine! fine, go ahead,— I withdraw from this in advance, it's between you two."
Dixon's eyebrows shoot Hatward, signaling Mischief. "Eeh, well thah's too bahd, Meeaahson,— my Question to Mr. Maskelyne was to've been, Pray thee Sir, might I buy the next Round out of my own Pocket, blessed be thy own Generosity for fair, of course,—
"Ahhrrhh!" Mason brings his Head to the Table-top in a controll'd thump, as Mr. Blackner immediately appears with three gigantic Pots of today's Cock Ale. "Rum Suck, Gents, and if Mr. Mas-son, can resist it, why then you Gents may divide this third Pot betwixt ye, Compliments of the House." Mr. Blackner's Receipt for Cock Ale is esteem'd up and down the............