Colonel Munro seized his arm and drew him towards the door, with all the vehemence of which he was capable.
"Come along—come along, Heriot!" he implored him; "you have had a little more to drink than you quite realize!"
Heriot disengaged himself very easily from his trembling grip.
"My poor old boy," he smiled, "I'm as sober as you were when you started! I positively require the exercise. Besides, you must remember that this sort of thing is only just beginning for me; don't grudge me my fling. Get you to bed as quick as you can, Charlie. Sleep is what you're needing."
"And do you know what you need?" exclaimed the Colonel, with another grab at his sleeve.
"A taste of life!" cried Heriot, evading his old fingers with wonderful agility, and slipping on his pasteboard nose.
He waved a gay farewell, threw his arm round the waist of the hot cross-bun, and waltzed out of the Colonel's vision.
It was not till two hours later that Heriot Walkingshaw, smiling with reminiscent pleasure and perspiring freely, set out on foot for his hotel. A brisk walk in the early morning air was the only pick-me-up he needed.