his pot-companion, Puffy. His dear wife woke at six, and saw Prettyman's dirty boots at her bedside. And where was the wretch, her husband? Why, he was drinking downstairs—swilling. Yes; worse than a midnight robber, he'd taken the keys out of his dear wife's pockets—ha! what that poor creature has to bear!—and had got at the brandy. A pretty thing for a wife to wake at six in the morning, and instead of her husband to see his dirty boots!
"But I'll not be made your victim, Mr. Caudle, not I. You shall never get at my keys, for they shall lie under my pillow—under my own head, Mr. Caudle.
"You'll be ruined, but if I can help it, you shall ruin nobody but yourself.
"Oh, that hor—hor—hor—i—ble tob—ac——co!"
To this lecture, Caudle affixes no comment. A certain proof, we think, that the man had nothing to say for himself.
