“You be d—d!” muttered Britton. “Ale all around; I think I see it—it’s a lie!”
“Andrew Britton awake,” cried Learmont in his ear.
“Con—con—confusion to Jacob Gray,” growled Britton. “Curse everybody!”
Learmont now shook him so violently that he opened his dull heavy eyes and fixed them on the squire’s face, with a stare of such astonishment, that it was doubtful to Learmont if he were in his senses or not.
“Do you know me, Andrew Britton?” he said.
“I should think so,” said Britton. “It’s a rum dream, though I could almost swear I was awake.”
“You are.”
“Am I? That’s a lie.”
“Feel my hand. ’Tis flesh and blood.”
“You—you don’t mean to say, squire, that you are here,” cried Britton, starting from the bed. “What’s the matter? What have I done?”