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. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
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