"That's most likely retribution.

A man can't unwind all that hullabaloo without feeling the strain.

Water, Johnny, and if you have some smelling salts handy, bring 'em along." After one or two vigorous attentions on the part of Mr.Poynter, the nomad of the music machine opened his eyes and stared blankly about him.

That he was not yet quite himself, however, was readily apparent, for meeting Mr.Poynter's unsmiling glance, he grew very white and faint and begged for water.
Philip supplied it without a word.

After an interval of unsympathetic silence, during which the minstrel's eyes roved uncertainly about the camp and returned each time to Philip's face in a fascinated stare, he feebly strove to rise but fell back groaning.
"If--if I might stay here for but the night," he begged pathetically, his accent slightly foreign.
"That's impossible!" said Philip curtly.