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The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. 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. It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup. We were alike. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. I'm almost sorry I've sworn to hang you.
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