“Very well turned off”!” retorted Mrs. Fokesell; “but it won’t do. We’re up to all your tricks, we are: so you’d much better confess at once. Oh, you’re a sly old fox—though perhaps you ain’t much wuss than the rest of you men. Fokesell was almost as bad—hardly a pin to choose betwixt you.”’
Mr. Sandboys, fatigued and vexed with the futility of his journey, felt in no way inclined for jesting; so, brushing past the unceremonious landlady, he darted up the stairs to the family garret.
Mrs. Fokesell, however, in anticipation of a “scene,” which she longed to witness, hastened after him, and was just in time to behold Elcy throw herself into her father’s arms, and burst into subdued hysterics at the unexpected pleasure of his return.
For a few minutes the landlady stood unobserved at the doorway, and while Cursty was wondering within himself why his daughter should receive him with so unusual an outburst of affection, and coupling her tears with the mysterious conduct and insinuations of Mrs. Fokesell, he began to ask himself, half in fear, “What fresh disaster could have befallen them now?”
Elcy kissed him again and again, telling him each time how happy she was that she had him home again. “Could she get him anything, or would he not like to lie down?” she inquired.
“Yes, Miss,” interrupted the busy Mrs. Fokesell, “if your Pa will be advised by me, he’ll take off his boots, and go and lie on the bed for an hour or two—and let me get him a bottle of soda water, while you puts a wet towel round his head, for if you looks at his eyes you’ll see they’re quite bloodshot.”
“My e’en bluidshot!” ejaculated Mr. Sandboys, growing half enraged at the apparent unmeaningness of the whole of the landlady’s remarks; however he went to the glass to see if there were anything odd enough in his looks to account for the peculiarity of the landlady’s behaviour. His eyes were a little red, certainly, he thought, as he scrutinized his countenance, but that arose from the “nap” he had indulged in during his ride home, and beyond this he could see nothing which could call forth so much anxiety on his behalf.
“Do, father,” said Elcy, “do go and lie down, or you’ll be ill, I am sure.”
“Yes;” chimed in Mrs. Fokesell, “I’m sure it’s a wonder you hasn’t got the ‘delirious trimmings‘ as it is. Fokesell, I know, once had ’em after one of these bouts, and then he fancied he was aboard his ship, in our back parlour, and that the house was agoing down, all hands, ’cause I wouldn’t work the pumps. Now, come, there’s a good gentleman, do be persuaded by Miss Elcy, and go to bed for an hour or two.”
“Go to bed!” echoed Sandboys, tetchily. “I’m not tired—I’ve had a nap.”