Just as Hogarth got to the door, the turnkey stopped him. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. Unless they remind him now and then not to. 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. Spurling, (for she it was,) either by her attractions of purse or person, had succeeded in moving the stony heart of Mr.
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