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. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. I don't care how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. CHAPTER VII. “Have you never met a suitable wife? What is wrong with getting married and having children as Mike and Shari have done? I should love to think.
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