“Why, whatever is it?” I said.
“It’s the bottles broken in the portmanteau,” he said. “The governor kept worrying me so while I was packing I didn’t know if I was on my head or my heels, and I’ve put the bottle of powdered charcoal and the bottle of cod liver oil too close together, and they’ve broken each other in the jolting, and mixed and run about all over the clothes.”
It was a nice mess, and no mistake. The cod liver oil and the charcoal had made a nasty, sticky blacking, and smothered everything.
“Whatever shall I do?” said the Swedish gentleman. “If the governor finds it out he’ll go on at me for a month.”
I thought a minute, and then I said, “Well, sir, the best thing will be for me to have them all washed to-morrow. I’ll get them done at once and sent home. Perhaps he won’t want them before they’re ready.”
He left the things with me and went upstairs again to put the medicines out, and then we went upstairs to bed. Passing Mr. Saxon’s door I knocked just to ask him about breakfast in the morning, and when I opened the door he was dancing about in an awful rage, and the Swedish gentleman was standing in the middle of the room looking the picture of misery.
Mr. Saxon was shouting out, “I can’t sleep without it—you know I can’t! Not one wink shall I have this blessed night. It’s murder, downright cold-blooded, brutal murder, and you’re my murderer!”
“Well, sir,” said the Swedish gentleman, “you didn’t tell me the bottle was empty. It’s in a wooden case for travelling, and I couldn’t see it was empty.”
“What is it you want, sir?” I said. “If it’s anything I can get you——”
“Oh, I dare say you can get it me!” exclaimed Mr. Saxon, “I’ve no doubt you keep it on draught! Do you draw bromide of potassium in people’s own jugs?”