“’Deed, then, and I’m sorry I’ve waked ye, my boy,” said the stout gentleman.
“Will you have the goodness, Sir, to tell me what you are doing here?”
“Bedad, then, just at this moment it’s brushing my clothes, I am. It was badly they wanted it.”
“I dare say they did. And you were doing it with my clothes-brush.”
“And that’s thrue too. And if a man hasn’t a clothes-brush of his own, what else can he do but use somebody else’s?”
“I think it’s a great liberty, Sir,” said I.
“And I think it’s a little one. It’s only in the size of it we differ. But I beg your pardon. There is your brush. I hope it will be none the worse.”
Then he put down the brush, seated himself on one of the two chairs which the room contained, and slowly proceeded to pull off his shoes, looking me full in the face all the while.
“What are you going to do, Sir?” said I, getting a little further out from under the clothes, and leaning over the table.
“I am going to bed,” said the gentleman.