"Help 'self and help me—'cos I'm ver' tired—ov' tired."
Harrison Smith embraced the opportunity of pouring out a perfect deadener for his host into which he discreetly added a pinch of cigar ash from a convenient stump (a concoction which in the absence of more potent drugs will produce very gratifying results).
While he was so employed Mr. Royston descanted freely on the subject of lovely women in the choice of which he declared himself to be an epicure.
"See that one—pho' frame—piano. Tho'bred—perfect tho'bred—a darling—love 'er—love 'em all."
"That's the talk," said Harrison Smith who was cursing the enforced delay. "Drink her health, old man, and no heel taps."
Mr. Royston rose nobly to the occasion and swallowed the contents of his glass at a single gulp.
"Blesh 'em!" he said. "Blesh 'em."
He seized the arm of his chair while the room spun round him in a dizzy whirl.
"Blast you, Petersh," he cried. "Thash pre-war whiskey. Sh-shot me clean through the brain pan. C-caught in the brewersh web."
He swayed a little and settled down on the floor by sections. Harrison
Smith stooped and put a cushion beneath his head.