“That’s so,” added Laybold, shaking his head. “We didn’t mean to run away, but that’s just what we have done.”
“We didn’t run a great way; for, if I remember rightly, running wasn’t our forte last evening. Who runs may reel, if he can’t read, and I reckon we did more reeling than running. But what’s to be done?”
“I don’t know.”
“In the first place, where are we? It’s no use to lay out a course till we know the ship’s position.”
They were utterly unable to determine this question. Each of them had a tolerably vivid recollection of their unfortunate condition on the preceding evening, and even that he had been carried by a couple of men; but they had no idea of time or locality. They washed themselves at the sink in the room, combed their hair with their pocket-combs, and looked then as though nothing had happened. Their heads were a little light, but they did not absolutely ache, and they realized but a small portion of the after effects of a regular “spree.” Having made their simple toilet, they decided to explore the premises, and make their way back to the ship. Leaving the chamber, they descended a flight of steps, and, in the hall below, encountered the Samaritan landlord.
“God morgon,” said the latter, with a jolly smile on his face; and it was probable that he had taken his morning dose of “finkel.” “Hur star det till?” (How are you?)
“Nix,” replied Scott, shrugging his shoulders.
“You are English,” added the landlord, a large portion of whose customers were foreign sailors.
“No; Americans.”
“I’m glad to see you.”