Yes, Johnny Cake, the man who would never be persuaded to taste a glass of liquor of any kind, who had always endeavored to keep his companions from spirituous imbibition; the virtuous cold-waterite, whom the sight of a glass of brandy would give a cold chill, a whisky-punch throw into spasms, or a mug of "lager" give a teetotal convulsion, stood now before the astounded Elephantine brotherhood drunk, plainly, undeniably, unequivocally drunk.
He had a black eye, and a swelled nose. His coat was on hind side before, and buttoned between his shoulders, while his pantaloons were entirely bereft of buttons, and were secured from parting company only by two pieces of telegraph-wire which, with commendable ingenuity, he had converted into extemporaneous metallic suspenders. His companion was in a singular state of derangement as to his personal attire, having no coat at all, and a red shirt over his nether continuations.
As soon as the first expression of surprise was over, the Higholdboy, comprehending that something unusual had taken place, ordered the company to be seated. In obedience to this peremptory order from the most noble officer of the club, the Elephantines each took a seat, but as the inglorious young man before-mentioned had made the chairs exceedingly treacherous and insecure, by cutting off one leg of each, the immediate consequence of the attempt was another general sprawlification upon the floor, executed in a masterly manner by the entire strength of the company. After five minutes of vigorous polyglot profanity had somewhat relieved the feelings of the fallen Elephantines, and they had recovered their feet, they contrived to sit down; the chairs were as treacherous as ever, but being forewarned, the members were forearmed, and by dint of many exertions, contrived to maintain their seats with a tolerable show of dignity.
Johnny Cake was too far gone to make any intelligible replies, or give any account of himself, and it was resolved to postpone his examination until he should get sober. His companion, however, who seemed to be something in the theatrical way, gave his own story in his own peculiar manner, but refused to enlighten the anxious brotherhood about poor Johnny.
He possessed a facility of quotation equal to Richard Swiveller, Esq.'s, but he was as reckless about the exactitude of his extracts, and jumbled up his authorities with as much confusion as Captain Cuttle himself. He seldom gave a quotation right, but would break off in the middle and substitute some words of his own, or dovetail an irrelevant piece from some strange author, or mix up half-a dozen authors with interpolations of his own, in an inextricable verbal jumble.
The Higholdboy and the stranger held the following conversation:
"Peter Knight; am a native to the marrow-bone.—That's Shakspeare."
"Young man, strange young man, young man to me unknown; young man of the peculiar hat and ruby shirt, I fear to adapt my conversation to your evident situation; that you're drunk, emphatically drunk, I repeat it, drunk—drunk was my remark—D—Runk, drunk."
"It's true, 'tis pity; pity 'tis there isn't the devil a doubt of it.—That's Scott."