Scott was the first to open his eyes and come to his senses. He raised himself in the bed, shook off the blanket, and then jumped out upon the floor. He did not comprehend the situation, and was unable, in his own words, to “figure up how he happened to be in that room.”
“Laybold, ahoy!” shouted he, after he had examined the apartment, and mentally confessed his inability to solve the problem. “Laybold! All hands on deck!”
“What is the matter?” cried Laybold, springing up, only half awake.
“I’ll be muzzled if I know what the matter is, but I believe that the Norway god—what’s his name?—Odin, came aboard the ship last night, and turned her into a country tavern,” replied Scott, going to the window, and looking down into the lane below.
“How came we here?” asked Laybold, rubbing his eyes.
“That’s more than I know; but I think we have been transplanted by the spirits.”
“The spirits?” gaped Laybold.
“Yes; I believe they call them ‘finkel.’ We were tight last night, my boy.”
“I remember all about it now. I dreamed that somebody lugged me in here.”
“You didn’t exactly dream it, for here we are. We are in a pretty scrape.”