“I’m feather-legged Ned, with ther consumptive corf,” said Nickie.  “Would you please give me a shillin’ t’ pay fer me medicine?”

“No, dash me if I do!” said Romeo, and he went off laughing.

Nickie took champagne with Sir Peter Teazie, Rip Van Winkle, Slender, and Henry VIII., and under the influence of the good wine became more audacious.  He passed the hat with a characteristic complaint wherever a few guests were assembled, and in view of the vast amusement he was giving was allowed any license in reason.  The offerings of the charitable he deposited in the tail pocket of his coat, and presently the weight dragged at him with a grateful pressure, and the silver clanked as he walked.  Fortune was not actually staring him in the face, but it was hanging on behind.

By one o’clock in the morning Nickie was carrying round a champagne bottle in his left hand, from which he refreshed himself, and he was no longer able to walk a chalk line as wide as a tram with an certainty, and had got into the way of clinging to the curtains and hangings; but this was all accepted as part of an excellent piece of caricature, and earned our hero some applause.

Just before supper a lady, dressed as Portia, came forward, and pinned a neat design of gold laurel leaves and emeralds on the breast of Mr. Nicholas Crips.  It was the prize for the best sustained character, which the host had offered his guests in a frivolous mood.  Nickie bowed in acknowledgment of applause, and then, with the bottle in one hand, and his hat in the other, he appealed to Portia.

“Could you spare a copper, kind lydie, to assist a poor orphan what’s laid up with lumbago in the feet.  I’ve bin bed-ridden fer ten years, lydie, and I lost both me legs in th’ battle of Waterloo.  On’y a penny for the battered ’ero good, kind lydie.”

At supper Nickie declined to unmask.  He would not remove his preposterous false nose.  He also excited doubts and misgivings by the depth of his thirst and his almost miraculous capacity for food.  After supper he was simply impossible.

Nicholas Crips in his sober moments was quiet and unpretentious in his rascalities, his temperament was naturally mild; but under the influence of strong drink he always developed tremendous belief in his own magnificence, strutted about and fondly fancied himself a king.  He was wholly and completely drunk when he charged into the ballroom at two in the morning, brandishing a full bottle, and singing uproariously.  He staggered into the middle of the dancers, whirling his magnum.

“Room” he cried.  “Room, there, for King Solomon in all his glory” He whirled his bottle again, and the dancers broke before him.  A Sir Toby Belch got the thick end of the bottle in his natural fatness, and collapsed with a groan.  “Remove the body!” ordered Nickie, magnificently.  “D’ye hear me, there, minions?  Remove these offensive remain from the royal presence.”