"Yes, I'm afraid there's very little left, Ronald," said he. With a murmur of thanks Barrymaine took the flask and, setting it to his lips, drained it at a gulp, and handed it back.
"Gad, Chichester!" he exclaimed, "it tastes damnably of the f-flask—faugh! What time is it?"
"A quarter to seven!"
"Th-three quarters of an hour to wait!"
"It will soon pass, Ronald, besides, he's sure to be early."
"Hope so! But I—I think I'll s-sit down."
"Well, the floor's dry, though dirty."
"D-dirty? So it is, but beggars can't be c-choosers and—dev'lish drowsy place, this!—I'm a b-beggar—you know t-that, and—pah! I think I'm l-losing my—taste for brandy—"
"Really, Ronald? I've thought you seemed over fond of it—especially lately."
"No—no!" answered Barrymaine, speaking in a thick, indistinct voice and rocking unsteadily upon his heels, "I'm not—n-not drunk, only—dev'lish sleepy!" and swaying to the wall he leaned there with head drooping.