" "We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord," observed an old oneeyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire-side. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. ‘I knew I should find you still here. " "My turn comes before yours, Sir," interposed his better half. Take it, if I die. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. ’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. ‘What a catalogue.
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