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. He stepped back further. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St. “Why should I bear the burden of your wickedness? Who knows what might come of it? I shall permit nothing of the sort. It ought not to be much. You understand me, sirrah?" "Perfectly," replied Jack.
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