Sampson
Brass, who was, by this time, anything but sober, being compelled
to take further draughts of the same strong bowl, found that,
instead of at all contributing to his recovery, they had the novel
effect of making the counting-house spin round and round with
extreme velocity, and causing the floor and ceiling to heave in a
very distressing manner. After a brief stupor, he awoke to a
consciousness of being partly under the table and partly under the
grate. This position not being the most comfortable one he could
have chosen for himself, he managed to stagger to his feet, and,
holding on by the admiral, looked round for his host.
Mr Brass's first impression was, that his host was gone and had
left him there alone--perhaps locked him in for the night. A
strong smell of tobacco, however, suggested a new train of ideas,
he looked upward, and saw that the dwarf was smoking in his
hammock.
'Good bye, Sir,' cried Brass faintly. 'Good bye, Sir.'
'Won't you stop all night?' said the dwarf, peeping out. 'Do stop
all night!'
'I couldn't indeed, Sir,' replied Brass, who was almost dead from
nausea and the closeness of the room.
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