But the manner of the cronies changed toward him nevertheless. Some fell to patronizing him, some to advising him, and some to sneering at the hubbub he was making.
“Well, well,” he cried, “One glass and a toast, anyway, and part friends for all.” “Aisy there! silence! Hush? Chink up! (Hear, hear?) Are you ready? Here goes, boys? The biggest blockit in the island, bar none—Capt’n Davy Quiggin.”
At that the raggabash who had been clinking glasses pretended to be mightily offended in their dignity. They looked about for their hats, and began to shuffle out.
“Lave me, then; lave me,” cried Davy. “Lave me, now, you Noah’s ark of creeping things. Lave me, I’m stone broke. Ay, lave me, you dogs with your noses in the snow. I’m done, I’m done.”
As the rascals who had cheated and robbed him trooped out like men aggrieved, Davy broke out into a stave of another wild song:
“I’m hunting the wren,” said Bobbin to Bobbin,
“I’m hunting the wren,” said Richard to Rob-bin,
“I’m hunting the wren,” said Jack of the Lhen,
“I’m hunting the wren,” said every one.
When the men were gone Lovibond came back by the window. The room was dense with the fumes of dead smoke, and foul with the smell of stale liquor. Broken pipes lay on the table amid the refuse of spilled beer, and a candle, at which the pipes had been lighted, still stood there burning.
Davy was reeling about madly, and singing and laughing in gust on gust. His face was afire with the drink that he had taken, and his throat was guggling and sputtering.
“I care nothing, not I—say what you like; I’ve had worse losses in my time,” he cried.
He plunged his right hand into his breast and drew out something.