“Good night, Mr. Pratt.”
Jacob, after a few minutes’ reflection, swung out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and made his way into the adjoining apartment. Lord Felixstowe, fully dressed, was lying upon the bed, breathing heavily. Jacob approached and stood over him. His tie had gone altogether, there were wine stains upon his shirt front, his hair, generally so beautifully smooth, was in wild disorder.
“You bragging young donkey!” Jacob scoffed. “He’s put it across you all right.”
The young man suddenly turned his head. There was a contraction of his left eyelid. He solemnly winked.
“I don’t think!” he said. “Turn on the taps in the bathroom, old dear. I’m going to have a soak.”
“Do you mean to say that you’re shamming?” Jacob exclaimed.
“How did you guess it! A hot bath and a small whisky and soda, and I shall drop off to sleep in a twinkling. But, Jacob, my lord and master,” Felixstowe enjoined earnestly, as he commenced to throw off his clothes, “don’t you try it on with them. I thought some of the lads from our own village could shift the stuff a bit when they were up against it, but, believe me, we do no more than gargle our throats over in London. When it comes to the real thing, they’ve got us beaten to a frazzle. Tuck yourself into bed, old thing, and don’t you worry about me. What a house to stay in!” the young man concluded, with a little burst of enthusiasm, as he pointed to the decanter of whisky, the soda water, and the silver ice tray set out upon a small table. “Jacob, when your brother rises from his bed of sickness, I shall grasp his hand and salute him as the lord of hosts. Absolutely clinking! Tophole!”
The young man disappeared into the bathroom, and Jacob, reassured but a little bewildered, went back to bed. To all appearance, Felixstowe was perfectly sober. Nevertheless, when breakfast was served the next morning, Jacob found himself alone.
“Have you told Lord Felixstowe?” he enquired of the butler.