Wood became sensible that he was not alone. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. 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 was damned if he knew what to do. Again returning to the main road, he passed through Clapton; and turning off on the left, arrived at the foot of Stamford Hill.
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