"It's not that kind I mean," the magistrate explained. He would have another good story to tell his wife.
"Well, then, ye must think I've got water on the brain, or I'm a bloomin' watered-stock company."
"I guess you know what I mean," and the magistrate smiled. "You're not so thick-headed as you try to make out."
"I ought to be pretty thick-headed, ye'r Honor. Wouldn't anyone be that way with more'n a dozen heads on his shoulders?"
"A dozen heads!"
"Sure. Sometimes I'm Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, an' agin I'm old Baron Rothschild, the Dook of Wellington, or some other guy. I guess I was the Dook all right when I walked over Joe Preston, though now I feel like old Boney Part when he was on that Island."
The magistrate looked curiously at the prisoner.
"Don't you often get mixed up?" he asked.
"Should say so. I'm never jist sure who I am. It gives me a lot of trouble."
"Well, if that's the way you feel, Mr. Andrews, I think the proper place for you to be is the lunatic asylum and not here. Anyway, we've got you now, and so must keep you for a while. Sergeant, you may take the prisoner down," he added, turning to the officer who had been standing quietly by during this interview.