"What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. You must have repented a little, or you would not have done that. ‘Leave it, imbecile.
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