Patsy did as he was told, and returned in a moment with a blanket.
Mr Murphy took it, spread it over himself, drank off the remains of the whisky at a gulp, placed his pipe on the stone floor at his elbow, and turned on his side.
“Plesint dhrames,” said Mr Murphy in a drowsy voice.
“Same to you,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Now then, Patsy, go before me.”
They left the room and locked the door. Just as the key turned Mr Murphy’s voice came sleepily:
“Patsy!”
“Yes, Misther Murphy?”
“Bring me me hot wather at eight.”
“Well,” said Mr Fanshawe, “that chap takes the bun!”
“It’s only his way, sir,” said Patsy. “He pretinds to joke with you, but all the same he’d slit your throat if he had the chanst for two brass farthin’s.”