"I am here!" answered Jed, who had waked up two or three minutes previous and was enjoying the defeat of his persecutor.
"Did you bring in this man?" demanded Mrs. Fogson sternly.
"No. I walked in myself," answered the intruder. "I was rather mellow—in other words I had drunk too much mixed ale, and I really didn't know where I was. I had an idea that this was a hotel."
"You made a mistake, sir. This is the Scranton poorhouse."
"So the boy told me when he came in. I wouldn't have taken a bed here if I had known your playful way of pouring cold water on your guests."
"Sir, apart from your assault on me, me, the master of the poorhouse," said Fogson, trying to recover some of his lost dignity, "you committed a trespass in entering the house without permission and appropriating a bed."
"All right, old man, but just remember that I was drunk."
"I don't think that is an excuse."
"Isn't it? Just get drunk yourself, and see what you'll do."
"I don't allow Mr. Fogson to get drunk," said his wife with asperity.