“Right-o, sir,” replied Joe; and, waiting till his master turned round, he seized him round the legs, and lifting that thin little body ascended the stairs, while Mr. Lavender, with the journals waving fanlike in his hands, his white hair on end, and his legs kicking, endeavoured to turn his head to see what agency was moving him.
At the top of the stairs they came on Mrs. Petty, who, having Scotch blood in her veins, stood against the wall to let them pass, with a hot bottle in either hand. Having placed Mr. Lavender in his bed and drawn the clothes up to his eyes, Joe Petty passed the back of his hand across his brow, and wrung it out.
“Phew!” he gasped; “he's artful!”
His wife, who had followed them in, was already fastening her eyes on the carpet.
“What's that?” she said, sniffing.
“That?” repeated Joe, picking up his pipe; “why, I had to run to ketch 'im, and it fell out o' me pocket.”
“And lighted itself,” said Mrs. Petty, darting, at the floor and taking up a glowing quid which had burned a little round hole in the carpet. “You're a pretty one!”
“You can't foresee those sort o' things,” said Joe.
“You can't foresee anything,” replied his wife; “you might be a Government. Here! hold the clothes while I get the bottles to his feet. Well I never! If he hasn't got——” And from various parts of Mr. Lavender's body she recovered the five journals. “For putting things in the wrong place, Joe Petty, I've never seen your like!”
“They'll keep 'im warm,” said Joe.