"I know not," he replied, wildly; "but unless I am dreaming, I heard a voice demanding admittance to the store. Do not open the door, for mercy's sake. I cannot bear to look upon his face again."
"Poor man," muttered Fred; "his story has affected him to such a degree that his mind wanders. Let us put him to bed as soon as possible, for fear of a return of the fever."
"You are mistaken, young men, if you think that fever or a diseased imagination has caused my emotion. See, I am perfectly calm."
In fact, he didn't seem as though afflicted with his late sickness, for his flesh was cool, and his face pale, but for all that he trembled violently, and as though attacked with the ague.
"I thought that I recognized the voice," our patient said, in a half whisper, and in a listening attitude, "but I may have been mistaken."
"Hullo, within there—open the door, and sell me a quart of the best quality," cried the rough voice on the outside, accompanied by another violent shake of the door that made every thing jar again.
Rover uttered a threatening howl, and pawed at the door as though desirous of inserting his teeth into the body of the brawler.
"I was certain that I could not be mistaken," exclaimed Mr. Critchet, in a hoarse whisper.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Will you let me have the liquor? Say yes or no," cried the impatient fellow on the outside, with an oath.