Old Death led the way to an indifferently furnished room, where a man as well stricken in years and as repulsively ugly as himself, though apparently not near so tall, was in bed.
"It's only me, Tidmarsh," said Old Death.
"Only you!" growled the man, sitting up in bed, and staring suspiciously at Rainford.
"Me and a friend—a very particular friend, Tiddy," added Bones. "Indeed, it's Mr. Rainford."
"Oh! that's different!" said Tidmarsh, in a more conciliatory tone. "Your fame, sir, has reached me even in this crib. Take some rum, sir."
And he pointed to a bottle and glasses standing on a table.
"Well—I don't mind if I do—just to keep out the damp, and drink your health, Mr. Tidmarsh," cried Rainford, in his usual merry, off-hand strain; and, suiting the action to his words, he took a small dram.
Old Death followed his example; and Mr. Tidmarsh suffered himself to be prevailed upon to imbibe a like quantum.
"Now, go to sleep, Tiddy," said Bones, in a patronising manner. "We shan't disturb you any more."
Mr. Tidmarsh gave a species of grunt by way of assent to the recommendation offered, and threw himself back upon his pillow.