Mr. Rose, walked up quietly to his
bedside, and observed that he was not asleep, and that he still had half
has clothes on. He was going away when he saw a little bit of the
trousers protruding under the mattress, and giving a pull, out they
came, wringing wet with the streams of beer. He could not tell at first
what this imported, but a fragment of the bottle fell out of the pocket
with, a crash on the floor, and he then discovered. Taking no notice of
Wildney's pretended sleep, he said, quietly, "Come to me before
breakfast tomorrow, Wildney," and went down stairs.
Eric came in soon after, and found the little fellow vainly attempting
to appear indifferent, as he related to his admiring auditors the
night's adventure; being evidently rather prouder of the "Erie and I,"
which he introduced every now and then into his story.
"Has he twigged you?"
"Yes."
"And me?"
"I don't know; we shall see to-morrow."
"I hope not," said Eric; "I'm sorry for you, Charlie."
"Can't be cured, must be endured," said Wildney.
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