At that moment Jerry caught sight of a glass on the dressing-table, and he uttered a cry, but felt confused and puzzled directly after; for his common sense told him that, if the lieutenant had tried to poison himself, whatever he had taken would not have gone off with a tremendous bang inside and made the windows rattle.
“What’s matter?” said the lieutenant again, in a confused way; “did I—did I—tumble out of bed?”
“No, no. I saved you, sir!” whimpered Jerry, hysterically. “Oh, sir, where is it? What have you done?”
“I d’ know,” said Lacey, confusedly. Then, with the power to think returning, he seized Jerry’s hands, and tried to remove them from his chest. “Here! what are you doing?”
“Doing! doing!” cried Jerry. “Oh, why don’t you speak! Can you hold out while I fetch the doctor?”
“Doctor? I d’ know?” cried Lacey, staring in a stupefied way at his servant, and then growing angry at being held down. “Here! what’s the matter? Have I been taken ill?”
“Ill? It’s ten times worse than that, sir. Hold still. Where are you hurt? Where’s the pistol?”
“Confound you! Will you leave go?” cried the lieutenant, who grew angry as his senses returned; and, gripping Jerry firmly, he wrenched himself round, made a violent effort, forced his man back, and rose to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
“Mr Lacey, sir, don’t!” cried Jerry.
“Oh, won’t I!” cried the lieutenant. “What do you mean by it? How dare you, sir? Couldn’t you sit up late without getting at my spirit-stand? What is it—brandy?”