"Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. “It’s fine, Michelle. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. I want to do something. "There won't be much left for you," he said. “Let’s hope your successor is worthy of you. " "Would he had done so!" cried Jack. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. 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.
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