“Get along!” said that person. “You want bedding out, you do.”
“Why, Joe, I’m with you. I never felt myself in closer quarters.”
Another squiggle of laughter greeted the sally.
“You might graft a new pair of ears to this gentleman,” said Tuke. “He’s been lopped, it seems, for canker; and that’s a disease peculiar to roses and curs, Joe.”
Brander’s face went furious.
“You stinking aristocrat!” he screamed. “I’ll pipe a tune for you by and by, and you shall dance, by God!”
He stamped his foot and waved with his gaunt arms.
“Kick him into the parlour!” he shouted—“and let his wits fatten on the frog-skins. He’ll want them in good condition presently.”
The prisoner made no resistance, and was haled rather than driven through the doorway of the room to his right—thrust and locked in.
The shutters, it seemed, were closed, and the place—except for the little glow diffused by a fire smouldering on the hearth—was in darkness. Not knowing if a trap of some sort was set for him, and being indeed considerably amazed and dumbfounded for all his fine show of sang-froid, he would not venture to do more than cross cautiously to the neighbourhood of the chimney corner, where he set his back against the wall and awaited events with what philosophy he could muster.