And merrily we'll drink and we'll hallo."

Cook attempted to join in the chorus, but his voice failed him, his head
sank down upon his breast, and, in a drunken stupor, he rolled from his
seat, prone upon the ground.

The tramp, rising to his feet, staggered to the side of his companion,
and steadying himself with the aid of a chair, made futile attempts to
raise his comrade to a perpendicular position. His knees bent under him,
the chair fell from his unsteady grasp, and murmuring, "We'll pass the
bottle round," he lurched forward, and falling across the recumbent
Cook, passed from the worship of Bacchus to the arms of Morpheus,
seemingly dead drunk.

With a bitter curse of rage Cummings stepped forward, and, with rough
hands, separated the boon companions, thrusting the tramp without
ceremony under the table, Moriarity in the meantime shaking Cook in vain
attempts to rouse him from his maudlin stupor. Cook, however, was too
far "under the influence" to be aroused, and to the vigorous shakings
and punchings would respond only with a hiccough and part of the refrain
"puppies drink."

Cummings, in a towering rage at finding Cook in such a helpless
condition, paced the small shop with impatient tread, all the time
pouring imprecations upon Cook's devoted head. A sudden turn in his
short beat brought him facing the window, and flattened against the
dirty pane was the face of a man gazing intently into the room.

Another second and the face had disappeared.