"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. “Shhh. “But all the rest of our case is right. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. Save my seat. It would give me great pleasure if you would dine with me somewhere first. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. He came into the club next day, and of course we went for him thick.
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