"Walk in and welcome," cried a tipsy waggoner; "we be all friends."
"Oh, faith!" said an Irish lady, whose husband, a "needy knife-grinder," was asleep on the floor, "he's a rale gintleman, and I'll give him a sate by myself, and p'raps he'll trate me to a drop of comfort."
Lord John felt exceedingly sick; and, choking with anger and tobacco-smoke, he turned to the ragged lad of the house, and ordered a private room.
"There be no room, sir, but this here, besides that there up the ladder."
"Up there, then," said his lordship, approaching it.
"No, but ye can't though," said the lad interposing: "mother and sister's asleep up there, and the waggoner's wife, and all the females except she as sits there, by the fire."
Lord John paused; he could not invade the territory of the fair sex: what was to be done?
"Can't I have a bed?"
"There be some dry straw left, I take it: I'll go and see, and give you a shake down here, and welcome."
"A shake down!" groaned his lordship, "Faddle!"