Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. 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. Will you leave us for a few minutes?" "You are not going to be harsh?" "I wish to talk about the future. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year.
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