the banquet, and alcoholic liquors, both affecting in operation upon
his Worship's guests. Poor fellows, they came to it after long
abstinence, with stomachs sadly out of training; and the streets of
Falmouth that evening were a panoramic commentary upon the danger of
undiscriminating kindness.

Now at about five o'clock I happened to be standing at the edge of
the Market Stairs, watching the efforts of a boat's crew to take a
dozen of these inebriates on board for the transport, when I heard my
name called, and turned to see Mr. George Goodfellow beckoning to me
from the doorway of the Plume of Feathers public-house.

"It's Coffin," he explained. "The old fool's sitting in the taproom
as drunk as an owl, and I was reckonin' that you an' me between us
might get him home quiet before the house fills up an' mischief
begins; for by the looks of it there'll be Newgate-let-loose in
Falmouth streets to-night."

I answered that this was very thoughtful of him; and so it was, and,
moreover, providential that he had dropped in at the Plume of
Feathers for two-pennyworth of cider to celebrate the day.

We found Captain Coffin seated in a corner of the taproom settle,
puffing at an empty pipe and staring at vacancy. "Drunk as an owl"
described his condition to a nicety; for at a certain stage in his
drinking all the world became mirk midnight to him, and he would
grope his way home through the traffic at high noon in profound,
pathetic belief that darkness and slumber wrapped the streets; on
which occasions the dialogue between him and the barber's parrot
might be counted on to touch high comedy. I knew this, and knew also