Sir Knaith Bullock was still lying on the floor, in the midst of the straw which with idle hands he had gradually heaped up all round him, so that he seemed reclining in a nest. But he was not asleep now; he was singing chorus to the songs of my lord Rochester, who—frankly tipsy—made as much noise and sang as thoroughly out of tune as any of the plebeian revellers in the coffee room.
"Hello, Sir John!" he shouted lustily, "where in the devil's name have you and Stowmaries been hiding yourselves?"
His tongue was thick and the words fell inarticulately from his quivering lips. Sir Knaith Bullock rolled over in the straw in order to have a good view of the intruder.
"Where the devil—sh—sh—Stowmaries?" he babbled as incoherently as his friend.
"We have been busy finding an alternative husband for the tailor's daughter," said Sir John gaily.
"And have you found one?" queried Wykeham with vague, somnolent eyes fixed upon the speaker.
"Ay! that we have! And I pray you gentlemen to join the merry company in the coffee room and to pledge the bold adventurer in a monster goblet of wine."
"Egad!—you—you don't mean—that—hic!—" hiccupped Bullock who had rolled right over in the straw and now looked like a giant and frowzy dog with prickly wisps standing out of his perruque and sticking to his surcoat and velvet breeches. He contrived to work himself about until he got onto his feet, whereupon he stood there tottering and swaying the while his bleary eyes tried to take in what was going on around him.
A great shout issuing from the coffee room, great banging of mugs against the boards, loud laughter and the first verse of a song, roused Rochester from his apathy and Wykeham from his moodiness.
"They are passing roisterous over there!" remarked the latter, gazing covetously toward the open door.