Next morning the Deemster was still sleeping while the sun was shining into his room. He was awakened by a thunderous clamour, which came as from a nail driven into the back of his head. Opening his eyes, he realised that somebody was knocking at his door, and shouting in a robustious bass—
“Christian, I say! Ever going to get up at all?”
It was the Clerk of the Rolls. Under one of his heavy poundings the catch of the door gave way, and he stepped into the room.
“Degenerate Manxman!” he roared. “In bed on Tynwald morning. Pooh! this room smells of dead sleep, dead spirits, and dead everything. Let me get at that window—you pitch your clothes all over the floor. Ah! that's fresher! Headache? I should think so. Get up, then, and I'll drive you to St. John's.”
“Don't think I'll go to-day, sir,” said Philip in a feeble whimper.
“Not go? Holy saints! Judge of his island and not go to Tynwald! What will the Governor say?”
“He said last night he would excuse my absence.”
“Excuse your fiddlesticks! The air will do you good. I've got the carriage below. Listen! it's striking ten by the church. I'll give you fifteen minutes, and step into your breakfast-room and look over the Times.”
The Clerk rolled out, and then Philip heard his loud voice through the door in conversation with Jem-y-Lord.
“And how's Mrs. Cottier to-day?”