"And the graveyard, too," muttered the individual who had before
disturbed the self-satisfied harmony of the company, remarking
upon the closing sentence of Harvey Green. "Come, landlord," he
added, as he strode across to the bar, speaking in a changed,
reckless sort of a way, "fix me up a good hot whisky-punch, and do
it right; and here's another sixpence toward the fortune you are
bound to make. It's the last one left--not a copper more in my
pockets," and he turned them inside-out, with a half-solemn, half-
ludicrous air. "I send it to keep company in your till with four
others that have found their way into that snug place since
morning, and which will be lonesome without their little friend."

I looked at Simon Slade; his eyes rested on mine for a moment or
two, and then sunk beneath my earnest gaze. I saw that his
countenance flushed, and that his motions were slightly confused.
The incident, it was plain, did not awaken agreeable thoughts.
Once I saw his hand move toward the sixpence that lay upon the
counter; but whether to push it back or draw it toward the till, I
could not determine. The whisky-punch was in due time ready, and
with it the man retired to a table across the room, and sat down
to enjoy the tempting beverage. As he did so, the landlord quietly
swept the poor unfortunate's last sixpence into his drawer. The
influence of this strong potation was to render the man a little
more talkative. To the free conversation passing around him he
lent an attentive ear, dropping in a word, now and then, that
always told upon the company like a well-directed blow. At last,
Slade lost all patience with him, and said, a little fretfully:

"Look here, Joe Morgan, if you will be ill-natured, pray go