a great white water-jug upon the sideboard, and lingering with a kind of hideous fascination near the brass spittoons, lounged heavily to bed—until at length Mark Tapley came and shook him by the arm, supposing him asleep.
"Mark!" he cried, starting.
"All right, sir," said that cheerful follower, snuffing with his fingers the candle he bore. "It ain't a very large bed, your'n, sir; and a man as wasn't thirsty might drink, afore breakfast, all the water you've got to wash in, and afterwards eat the towel. But you'll sleep without rocking to-night, sir."
"I feel as if the house were on the sea," said Martin, staggering when he rose; " and am utterly wretched."
"I'm as jolly as a sandboy, myself, sir," said Mark. "But, Lord, I have reason to be! I ought to have been born here; that's my opinion. Take care how you go"—for they were now ascending the stairs. "You recollect the gentleman aboard the Screw as had the very small trunk, sir?"
"The valise? Yes."
"Well, sir, there's been a delivery of clean clothes from the wash to-night, and they're put outside the bed-room doors here. If you take notice as we go up, what a very few shirts there are, and what a many fronts, you'll penetrate the mystery of his packing."
But Martin was too weary and despondent to take heed of anything, so had no interest in this discovery. Mr. Tapley, nothing dashed by his indifference, conducted him to the top of the house, and into the bed-chamber prepared for his reception: which was a very little narrow room, with half a window in it; a bedstead like a chest without a lid; two chairs; a piece of carpet, such as shoes are commonly tried upon at a ready-made establishment in England; a little looking-glass nailed against the wall; and a washing-table, with a jug and ewer, that might have been mistaken for a milk-pot and slop-basin.
"I suppose they polish themselves with a dry cloth in this country," said Mark. "They've certainly got a touch of the 'phoby, sir."
"I wish you would pull off my boots for me," said Martin, dropping into one of the chairs. "I am quite knocked up—dead beat, Mark."
"You won't say that to-morrow morning, sir," returned Mr. Tapley; "nor even to-night, sir, when you've made a trial of this." With which he produced a very large tumbler, piled up to the brim with little blocks of clear transparent ice, through which one or two thin slices of lemon, and a golden liquid of delicious appearance, appeared from the still depths below, to the loving eye of the spectator.
"What do you call this?" said Martin.
But Mr. Tapley made no answer: merely plunging a reed into the mixture—which caused a pleasant commotion among the pieces of ice—and signifying by an expressive gesture that it was to be pumped up through that agency by the enraptured drinker.
Martin took the glass, with an astonished look; applied his lips to the reed; and cast up his eyes once in ecstacy. He paused no more until the goblet was drained to the last drop.
