There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Glancing at each other, they rose from their seats and ventured to address the captain. Irreton. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom. I think you’re wrong. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it.
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