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. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time.
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