One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. 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. But Jonathan was not to be deterred. Always as black and bitter as gall. You are—horrible. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. She climbed on top of him and straddled him, reinserting his penis inside her. Just now my best ones are all taken. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. He swore when I tried to get it out with the ladle, and told me what it said. She will cry for days and nights together. "Why, how the devil did you happen to guess that?" cried the janizary. Too late.
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