“I—I—really don’t know.”
At this juncture, when the courteous host felt himself rather at a loss to give a reason why he should not be hung, there entered the house a little bustling man, exclaiming, as he came,—
“Well, they are coming it—there’s nothing but lights here, there, and everywhere. You may hear the music in the park. Ah! No doubt, ’tis a right merry scene.”
“What do you mean?” roared Britton. “Ex—ex—plain yourself, you bad-looking—piece of—of—bad—clay, you gnat—ex—explain, or I’ll give you a blow—shall—shall—Curse me, if—I know.”
“Ah, explain yourself, Master Sniggle,” said the host, winking at the little man.
“Why,” said the little man, “there’s lights everywhere—there’s lights above—lights below—”
“Ex—ex—plain!” roared Britton.
“Well, I am explaining. There’s lights—”
“If—you—you say lights again, I’ll be the death of you.”
“The—the—death of me for saying lights?”