Sam Slater interfered.
"You don't know anything at all about it; he's not been drinking; he's been got at, and some one's cleared him of his cash."
"You leave him to me, Jenkins," said the stout lady.
For Bertie had swooned. As easily as though he had been a baby, instead of being the great lad that he was, she lifted him and carried him to another room. When he opened his eyes again he found that he was lying on a brilliantly counterpaned bed. Sam was seated on the edge, the lady was standing by the side, and Mr. Jenkins, a steaming tumbler in his hand, was leaning over the rail at his head.
"Better?" inquired the lady, perceiving that his eyes were open.
For answer Bertie sat up and looked about him. It was a little room, smaller than the other, and cooler, owing to the absence of a fire.
"Take a swig of this; that'll do you good."
Mr. Jenkins held the steaming tumbler towards him. Bertie shrank away.
"It's only peppermint, made with my own hands, so I can guarantee it's good. A barrel of it wouldn't do you harm. Drink up, sonny!"
Thus urged by the lady, he took the glass and drank. It certainly revived him, making him feel less dull and heavy; but a curious sense of excitement came instead. In the state in which he was even peppermint had a tendency to fly to his head. Perceiving his altered looks the lady went on,--