"Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. “Mr. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. E.
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