Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Turning, she flew for the nearest door. Sheppard returned no answer. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. "Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this fine night," observed Ben. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. “No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. ‘What is it?’ asked Roding.
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