“Go to the devil, an’ you will. Are we to sit up all night to attend to one sot? No, that will never suit the Old Mitre, an’ there were a round dozen of you, we might think of it.”
“It’s d—damned ill-usage,” remonstrated the man who had been turned out so unceremoniously from what appeared to Learmont a little tavern, and the door of which was immediately flung close, and barred from within.
“That’s the—the way of the world,” remarked the drunken man, as he slowly gathered himself up on his feet, and shook his head with tipsy gravity. “There’s no such thing as a consideration in the world, and the street even is turning round—and round in a most ex—ex—extra—ordinary manner. That’s how I never can get home prop—properly. The streets keep a-moving in that ex—ex—extraordinary manner;—that end comes round to this end—and that’s how I’m led astray. It’s too bad—it is indeed; it’s enough to—to make one weep, it is. But no matter ex—ex—a double extraordinary man, and a greatly injured character.”
The drunkard had evidently reached the sentimental stage of intoxication, and he staggered along weeping and lamenting alternately.
“I may gather from this sot some information of where I am,” thought Learmont, and in an instant he strided after the reeling man.
When he reached him he touched him on the shoulder, and said,—
“My friend, can you tell me where I am?”
“Eh?—’pon my w—w—word, that’s a funny question. Why, you—you’ve just been turned out of the Mitre.”
“Pho! Pho!” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Can you tell me what part of the town we are in?”
“The o—open air, of course,” replied the man. “Hurrah! That’s my opinion. My opinion’s hurrah! And all I mean to say is, if somebody else—no, that isn’t it—if I didn’t take somebody else’s job—no, that ain’t it.”