burn double and the whole
dining-room was going round, when "See here, Plocamus," Trimalchio spoke
up, "haven't you anything to tell us? You haven't entertained us at all,
have you? And you used to be fine company, always ready to oblige with a
recitation or a song. The gods bless us, how the green figs have
fallen!" "True for you," the fellow answered, "since I've got the gout
my sporting days are over; but in the good old times when I was a young
spark, I nearly sang myself into a consumption. How I used to dance!
And take my part in a farce, or hold up my end in the barber shops! Who
could hold a candle to me except, of course, the one and only Apelles?"
He then put his hand to his mouth and hissed out some foul gibberish or
other, and said afterwards that it was Greek. Trimalchio himself then
favored us with an impersonation of a man blowing a trumpet, and when he
had finished, he looked around for his minion, whom he called Croesus, a
blear-eyed slave whose teeth were very disagreeably discolored. He was
playing with a little black bitch, disgustingly fat, wrapping her up in a
leek-green scarf and teasing her with a half-loaf of bread which he had
put on the couch; and when from sheer nausea, she refused it, he crammed
it down her throat. This sight put Trimalchio in mind of his own dog and
he ordered Scylax, "the guardian of his house and home," to be brought
in. An enormous dog was immediately led in upon a chain and, obeying a
kick from the porter, it lay down beside the table. Thereupon Trimalchio
remarked, as he threw it a piece of white bread, "No one in all my house
loves me better than Scylax." Enraged at Trimalchio's praising Scylax so
warmly, the slave put the bitch down upon the floor and sicked her on to
fight. Scylax, as might have been expected from such a dog, made the
whole room ring with his hideous barking and nearly shook the life out of
the little bitch which the slave called Pearl. Nor did the uproar end in
a dog fight, a candelabrum was upset upon the table, breaking the glasses
and spattering some of the guests with hot oil. As Trimalchio did not
wish to seem concerned at the loss, he kissed the boy and ordered him to
climb upon his own back. The slave did not hesitate but, mounting his
rocking-horse, he beat Trimalchio's shoulders with his open palms,
yelling with laughter, "Buck! Buck! How many fingers do I hold up!"
When Trimalchio had, in a measure, regained his composure, w