He threw himself on his bed.

"It's all righ'. At nine o'clock to-morrow morning, no--at a quar'er
pas' nine, I mean three quar'ers pas' nine, I shall be drunk. Not
disgustingly and ridicklelously, as you are, Spinky, at this minute,
but soo-p-p-perbubbly, loominously, divinely drunk! You don' know what
I could do if I was only drunk."

"Oh, come, I shouldn't complain, if I was you. You'll do pretty well
as you are, I think."

With an almost maternal tenderness and tact Mr. Spinks contrived to
separate the poet from his poem. He then undressed him. That is to
say, by alternate feats of strength, dexterity and cunning, he
succeeded in disengaging him from the looser portion of his clothing.
From his shirt and trousers Rickman refused to part, refused with a
shake of the head, slow, gentle, and implacable, and with a smile of
great sweetness and gravity and wisdom. He seemed to regard those
garments with a peculiar emotion as the symbols of his dignity, and
more especially, as the insignia of sobriety.

Spinks sat down and stared at the object of his devotion. "Poor old
chappie," he murmured tenderly. He was helpless before that slow
melancholy shaking of the head, that mysterious and steadfast smile.
He approached tip-toe on deprecating feet. But Rickman would none of
him; his whole attitude was eloquent of rebuke. He waved Spinks away
with one pathetic hand; with the other he clutched and gathered round
him the last remnants of his personal majesty. And thus, in his own
time and in his own fashion, he wandered to his bed. Even then he
conveyed reproach and reproof by his manner of entering it; he seemed