in a shirt, a pair of Turkish trousers, and a Turkish cap, rolling over and over on his own carpet, and spluttering wonderfully.
“Oh Lord!” gasped Mr. Fledgeby. “Oh my eye! Stop thief! I am strangling. Fire! Oh my eye! A glass of water. Give me a glass of water. Shut the door. Murder! Oh Lord!” And then rolled and spluttered more than ever.
Hurrying into another room, Miss Jenny got a glass of water, and brought it for Fledgeby’s relief: who, gasping, spluttering, and rattling in his throat betweenwhiles, drank some water, and laid his head faintly on her arm.
“Oh my eye!” cried Fledgeby, struggling anew. “It’s salt and snuff. It’s up my nose, and down my throat, and in my windpipe. Ugh! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ah—h—h—h!” And here, crowing fearfully, with his eyes starting out of his head, appeared to be contending with every mortal disease incidental to poultry.
“And oh my eye, I’m so sore!” cried Fledgeby, starting, over on his back, in a spasmodic way that caused the dressmaker