Everybody breathed a collective sigh of relief in the neighborhood, no one wanted to see how those kids would grow up. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. It would not have interested him in the least to learn that the tub ran on two powers—wind and oil. 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. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day.
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