To ascertain who this mysterious visitor might be, Mr. Pryme proceeded at once to my apartment, accompanied by his henchman, Jack Costigan, who, to guard against danger or surprise, had provided himself with the kitchen poker. No ally could have been better affected than the butler; for, by future good service, he was anxious to redeem the error he had committed in rejecting an heir-apparent from his father’s house, as unceremoniously as if he had been the tax-gatherer.
I laboured under the stupid inertion which succeeds a drunken debauch, and was buried in profound repose. Unheard and unchallenged, the quaker approached my bed, while the butler unclosed the window-shutters. The quaker touched my shoulder gently—and in a voice as calm as if he were addressing an honoured guest, inquired, “Friend, art thou sleeping?”
Fancying that I was ‘wakened by my servant to attend morning drill, I irreverently responded,—
“Curse all parades! Tell Sergeant Skelton to go to Bath, and let the Adjutant go after him!”
“Swear not,” returned Mr. Pryme; “but say, how wilt thou excuse thyself?”—
“Oh!” I replied, still dreaming of drill and duty, “I’ll leave that to you: say I have a head-ache—a tooth-ache—or any ache you please. In short, tell any lie that will answer best!”
“Friend, thou dost neither comprehend my meaning, nor I thine;” replied the old gentleman.
At the moment, Mr. Costigan managed to unclose the shutters;—a flood of sunshine streamed in, lightened the apartment suddenly, and at once dispelled my slumberings. I started, like a guilty thing, bolt upright in the bed, and encountered full front, the burly form of the honest quaker; while Mr. Costigan, poker in hand, remained some paces in the rear, ready to aid and support his master on the first indication of hostilities.
“My name is Obadiah Pryme—Friend, what is thine?”
The question was a regular choker. I was called on to become my own accuser, and stand before my father’s chosen representative, a self-convicted roué. Of the finale of my career, what goodly promise did its opening give! my first introduction to my guardian—a rascally invasion of his premises,—and, were I pressed to extenuate the offence, I could not, with Jack Falstaff, even plead that I had not “kissed the keeper’s daughter.”