ted Trott again, falling back a step or two, and
gazing, in unutterable wonder, on the countenance of the mayor.

'Ha-ha! I see, my lord--practising the madman?--very good indeed--very
vacant look--capital, my lord, capital--good evening, Mr.--Trott--ha! ha!
ha!'

'That mayor's decidedly drunk,' soliloquised Mr. Trott, throwing himself
back in his chair, in an attitude of reflection.

'He is a much cleverer fellow than I thought him, that young nobleman--he
carries it off uncommonly well,' thought Overton, as he went his way to
the bar, there to complete his arrangements. This was soon done. Every
word of the story was implicitly believed, and the one-eyed boots was
immediately instructed to repair to number nineteen, to act as custodian
of the person of the supposed lunatic until half-past twelve o'clock. In
pursuance of this direction, that somewhat eccentric gentleman armed
himself with a walking-stick of gigantic dimensions, and repaired, with
his usual equanimity of manner, to Mr. Trott's apartment, which he
entered without any ceremony, and mounted guard in, by quietly depositing
himself on a chair near the door, where he proceeded to beguile the time
by whistling a popular air with great apparent satisfaction.

'What do you want here, you scoundrel?' exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott,
with a proper appearance of indignation at his detention.

The boots beat time with his head, as he looked gently round at Mr. Trott
with a smile of pity, and whistled an _adagio_ movement.

'Do you attend in this room by Mr. Overton's desire?' inquired Trott,
rather astonished at the man's demeanour.

'Keep yourself to yourself, young feller,' calmly responded the boots,
'and don't say nothing to nobody.' And he whistled again.

'Now mind!' ejaculated Mr. Trott, anxious to keep up the farce of wishing
with great earnestness to fight a duel if they'd let him. 'I protest
against being kept here. I deny that I have any intention of fighting
with anybody. But as it's useless contending with superior numbers, I
shall sit quietly down.'

'You'd better,' observed the placid boots, shaking the large stick
expressively.

'Under protest, however,' added Alexander Trott, seating himself with
indignation in his face, but great content in his heart. 'Under
protest.'

'Oh, certainly!' responded the boots; 'anything you please. If you're
happy, I'm transported; only don't talk too much--it'll make you worse.'

'Make me worse?'