Gabriel Varden went his way towards London, thinking of a great
many things, and most of all of flaming terms in which to relate his
adventure, and so account satisfactorily to Mrs Varden for visiting the
Maypole, despite certain solemn covenants between himself and that lady.
Thinking begets, not only thought, but drowsiness occasionally, and the
more the locksmith thought, the more sleepy he became.

A man may be very sober--or at least firmly set upon his legs on that
neutral ground which lies between the confines of perfect sobriety and
slight tipsiness--and yet feel a strong tendency to mingle up present
circumstances with others which have no manner of connection with them;
to confound all consideration of persons, things, times, and places;
and to jumble his disjointed thoughts together in a kind of mental
kaleidoscope, producing combinations as unexpected as they are
transitory. This was Gabriel Varden's state, as, nodding in his dog
sleep, and leaving his horse to pursue a road with which he was well
acquainted, he got over the ground unconsciously, and drew nearer and
nearer home. He had roused himself once, when the horse stopped until
the turnpike gate was opened, and had cried a lusty 'good night!' to the
toll-keeper; but then he awoke out of a dream about picking a lock in
the stomach of the Great Mogul, and even when he did wake, mixed up the
turnpike man with his mother-in-law who had been dead twenty years. It
is not surprising, therefore, that he soon relapsed, and jogged heavily
along, quite insensible to his progress.

And, now, he approached the great city, which lay outstretched before
him like a dark shadow on the ground, reddening the sluggish air with a
deep dull light, that told of labyrinths of public ways and shops, and
swarms of busy people. Approaching nearer and nearer yet, this halo