Having drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his unknown friend for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and indulged himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was perfectly dark. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. “There are policemen—and buses. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. They got to go home and eat Campbell’s Chicken Soup. “My dear Anna,” he answered.
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