purl."




CHAPTER LI.

I hate a drunken rogue.
--Twelfth Night.

We took an affectionate leave of Mr. Gordon, and found ourselves once
more in the open air; the smoke and the purl had contributed greatly to
the continuance of our inebriety, and we were as much averse to bed as
ever. We conveyed ourselves, laughing and rioting all the way, to a stand
of hackney-coaches. We entered the head of the flock, and drove to
Piccadilly. It set us down at the corner of the Haymarket.

"Past two!" cried the watchman, as we sauntered by him.

"You lie, you rascal," said I, "you have passed three now."

We were all merry enough to laugh at this sally; and seeing a light gleam
from the entrance of the Royal Saloon, we knocked at the door, and it was
opened unto us. We sat down at the only spare table in the place, and
looked round at the smug and varment citizens with whom the room was
filled.

"Hollo, waiter!" cried Tringle, "some red wine negus--I know not why it
is, but the devil himself could never cure me of thirst. Wine and I have
a most chemical attraction for each other. You know that we always