‘Under protest, however,’ added Alexander Trott, seating himself with indignation in his face, but great content in his heart. ‘Under protest.’
‘Oh, certainly!’ responded the boots; ‘anything you please. If you’re happy, I’m transported; only don’t talk too much—it’ll make you worse.’
‘Make me worse?’ exclaimed Trott, in unfeigned astonishment: ‘the man’s drunk!’
‘You’d better be quiet, young feller,’ remarked the boots, going through a threatening piece of pantomime with the stick.
‘Or mad!’ said Mr. Trott, rather alarmed. ‘Leave the room, sir, and tell them to send somebody else.’
‘Won’t do!’ replied the boots.
‘Leave the room!’ shouted Trott, ringing the bell violently: for he began to be alarmed on a new score.
‘Leave that ’ere bell alone, you wretched loo-nattic!’ said the boots, suddenly forcing the unfortunate Trott back into his chair, and brandishing the stick aloft. ‘Be quiet, you miserable object, and don’t let everybody know there’s a madman in the house.’
‘He is a madman! He is a madman!’ exclaimed the terrified Mr. Trott, gazing on the one eye of the red-headed boots with a look of abject horror.
‘Madman!’ replied the boots, ‘dam’me, I think he is a madman with a vengeance! Listen to me, you unfortunate. Ah! would you?’