“Jacob, old bean,” he declared, sitting down heavily upon the bed, “we’ve got the knock. London’s a back number. We’re beaten at the post.”
“In what respect?”
“The lasses!” Felixstowe exclaimed, smacking the part of the bed where he imagined Jacob’s leg to be,—“the lasses, the drink and the gilded halls! And I’ll tell you another thing. Our friend Morse can take off his spectacles and go a bit. He’s no stranger on the merry-go-rounds.... Gee! What’s that?”
The young man slipped from the bed and crossed the room to where, on a very handsome little round table, a bottle of whisky and other appurtenances were attractively displayed.
“The one thing I needed to send me to sleep like a top was a nightcap,” he declared, mixing himself a drink. “Jacob, have you any more relatives? Let’s visit ’em all.”
“You go to bed,” Jacob insisted. “I’m going to turn out the light directly.”
Lord Felixstowe, his glass in his hand, one-stepped lightly out of the room, humming under his breath a little ditty which seemed to contain dual references to a prospective sovereignty of the May and the hour at which he would like his shaving water. Jacob turned over and slept the sleep of the just.