A short fat man in his shirt, with braces hanging loosely about his breeches, stepped into the room, but on catching sight of me, fell back a step and stood staring. It was O’Twist. The moonlight made him deadly white, and I scarcely knew him in his undress.
“What do you want?” I gasped, not doubting that the man had hoped to find me asleep, and to steal my watch and purse, and perhaps to murder me.
“I tort I’d look in to see if you were all right, sor,” he answered.
“Right! what do you mean? I was asleep.”
“Thrue, sor.”
Here he advanced, went to the window, pulled down the sash, and drew the curtains. I was so much amazed by his actions that I could barely articulate. Was he walking in his sleep? Impossible. Somnambulists can’t converse. Was he labouring under a sudden and severe access of insanity? Idiot that I was to leave my razor exposed on the dressing table!
“What are you doing?” I gurgled.
“Preevinting the moon from shoining upon your honour’s head,” he replied, gazing complacently round him, and then moving towards the door.
“What’s the moon got to do with you?” I cried. “I always sleep with my window open in summer. How dare you close it without my leave, or enter my room at all?”
“Niver moind, sor, niver moind,” he answered soothingly and blandly. “Your honour will be grateful to me in the marning whin you foind oi’ve saved yer from taking cowld.”