Presently, I heard a footstep, and saw Doctor Johnson approaching.

And perplexed enough did he look at the sight of his prostrate file of patients, plunged, apparently, in such unaccountable slumbers.

“Daniel,” he cried, at last, punching in the side with his cane the individual thus designated—“Daniel, my good fellow, get up! do you hear?”

But Black Dan was immovable; and he poked the next sleeper.

“Joseph, Joseph! come, wake up! it’s me, Doctor Johnson.”

But Jingling Joe, with mouth open, and eyes shut, was not to be started.

“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed, with uplifted hands and cane, “what’s got into ’em? I say, men”—he shouted, running up and down—“come to life, men! what under the sun’s the matter with you?” and he struck the stocks, and bawled with increased vigour.

At last he paused, folded his hands over the head of his cane, and steadfastly gazed upon us. The notes of the nasal orchestra were rising and falling upon his ear, and a new idea suggested itself.

“Yes, yes; the rascals must have been getting boozy. Well, it’s none of my business—I’ll be off;” and off he went.

No sooner was he out of sight, than nearly all started to their feet, and a hearty laugh ensued.

Like myself, most of them had been watching the event from under a sly eyelid. By this time, too, Doctor Long Ghost was as wide awake as anybody. What were his reasons for taking laudanum,—if, indeed, he took any whatever,—is best known to himself; and, as it is neither mine nor the reader’s business, we will say no more about it.