“No, sir,” replied the fat boy.
“Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this morning,” said Wardle. “Run into the next room and fetch it.”
The fat boy went into the next room; and having been absent about a minute, returned with the snuff-box, and the palest face that ever a fat boy wore.
“What’s the matter with the boy!” exclaimed Wardle.
“Nothen’s the matter with me,” replied Joe, nervously.
“Have you been seeing any spirits?” inquired the old gentleman.
“Or taking any?” added Ben Allen.
“I think you’re right,” whispered Wardle, across the table. “He is intoxicated, I’m sure.”
Ben Allen replied that he thought he was; and as that gentleman had seen a vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an impression which had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and at once arrived at the conclusion that the fat boy was drunk.
“Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,” murmured Wardle. “We shall soon find out whether he is or not.”