He loitered and lounged back to the chimney, yawned, shook himself, buttoned up his coat and laughed.
“Liquor ain’t so plenty as that, Old Man. Now don’t you git up,” he continued, as the Old Man made a movement to release his sleeve from Johnny’s hand. “Don’ you mind manners. Sit jist whar you be; I’m goin’ in a jiffy. Thar, that’s them now.”
There was a low tap at the door.
Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded “good night” to his host, and disappeared.
The Old Man would have followed him but for the hand that still unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He could have easily disengaged it; it was small, weak, and emaciated. But perhaps because it was small, weak, and emaciated, he changed his mind, and drawing his chair closer to the bed, rested his head upon it. In this defenceless attitude the potency of his earlier potations surprised him. The room flickered and faded before his eyes, reappeared, faded again, went out, and left him—asleep.
Meantime, Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted his companions.
“Are you ready?” said Staples.
“Ready!” said Dick; “what’s the time?”
“Past twelve,” was the reply; “can you make it?—it’s nigh on fifty miles, the round trip hither and yon.”
“I reckon,” returned Dick, shortly. “Whar’s the mare?”