followed, and the man died out. He drank while he could stand, and
then lay down in a corner, where his companions left him.

It was almost midnight, when the landlord's wife came to the barroom
to see what kept her husband up, and she quickly saw Tom.

"Peter," said she, not in a pleasant mood, "why don't you send that
miserable Tom Darcy home? He's been hanging around here long enough."

Tom's stupefaction was not sound sleep. The dead coma had left his
brain, and the calling of his name stung his senses to keen attention.
He had an insane love of rum, but he did not love the landlord. In
other years, Peter Tindar and he had wooed the same maiden,--Ellen
Goss,--and he had won her, leaving Peter to take up with the
sharp-tempered damsel who had brought him the tavern, and Tom knew
that lately the tapster had gloated over the misery of the woman who
had once discarded him.

"Why don't you send him home?" demanded Mrs. Tindar, with an impatient
stamp of her foot.

"Hush, Betsey, he's got money. Let him be, and he'll be sure to spend
it before he goes home. I'll have the kernel of that nut, and his wife
may have the husk."

Betsey turned away, and shortly afterward Tom Darcy lifted himself up
on his elbow.

"Ah, Tom, are you awake?"