es. She got the
whisky and hot water, the lemon and sugar, and set the things beside
him; and then she retired to the sofa. John Kenneby the while sat
perfectly silent looking on. Perhaps he was considering whether he
would be able to emulate the domestic management of Dockwrath or of
Moulder when he should have taken to himself Mrs. Smiley and the
Kingsland brick-field.

"If you've a mind to help yourself, John, I suppose you'll do it,"
said Moulder.

"None for me just at present, thank'ee," said Kenneby.

"I suppose you wouldn't swallow nothing less than wine in them togs?"
said the other, raising his glass to his lips. "Well, here's better
luck, and I'm blessed if it's not wanting. I'm pretty well tired of
this go, and so I mean to let 'em know pretty plainly."

All this was understood by Mrs. Moulder, who knew that it only
signified that her husband was half tipsy, and that in all
probability he would be whole tipsy before long. There was no
help for it. Were she to remonstrate with him in his present mood,
he would very probably fling the bottle at her head. Indeed,
remonstrances were never of avail with him. So she sat herself down,
thinking how she would run down when she heard Mrs. Smiley's step,
and beg that lady to postpone her visit. Indeed it would be well to
send John to convey her home again.

Moulder swallowed his glass of hot toddy fast, and then mixed
another. His eyes were very bloodshot, and he sat staring at the
fire. His hands were thrust into his pockets between the periods of
his drinking, and he no longer spoke to any one. "I'm ---- if I stand
it," he growled forth, addressing himself. "I've stood it a ---- deal
too long." And then he finished the second glass. There was a sort
of understanding on the part of his wife that such interjections
as these referred to Hubbles and Grease, and indicated a painfully
advanced state of drink. There was one hope; the double heat, that of
the fire and of the whisky, might make him sleep; and if so, he would
be safe for two or three hours.

"I'm blessed if I do, and that's all," said Moulder, grasping the
whisky-bottle for the third time. His wife sat behind him very
anxious, but not daring to interfere. "It's going over the table,
M.," she then said.

"D---- the table!" he answered; and then his head fell forward on his
breast, and he was fast asleep with the bottle in his hand.

"Put your hand to it, John," said Mrs. Moulder in a whisper. But John