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The few whites he had ever known generally offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. “What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. 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. You need fear no interruption from him, or any of his myrmidons. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. Wood will protect you," urged Mrs. "It's Mrs. Why?" "I was just wondering.
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