There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. "All my life I've dreamed of something like this," he said, divertingly, with a gesture which included the yacht. All the talk in the world would not describe Ruth. ” “It was an inspiration—your speaking to him?” “I felt impudent.
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