of scorn and pity; what did the scorn and pity of men,
the jokes of ribald children, matter to the General? He reeled along the
street with glazed eyes, having just sense enough to know whither he was
bound, and to pursue his accustomed beat homewards. He went to bed not
knowing how he had reached it, as often as any man in London. He woke
and found himself there, and asked no questions, and he was tacking
about on this daily though perilous voyage, when, from his station
at the coffee-stall, Huxter spied him. To note his friend, to pay his
twopence (indeed, he had but eightpence left, or he would have had a cab
from Vauxhall to take him home), was with the eager Huxter the work of
an instant--Costigan dived down the alleys by Drury Lane Theatre,
where gin-shops, oyster-shops, and theatrical wardrobes abound, the
proprietors of which were now asleep behind their shutters, as the
pink morning lighted up their chimneys; and through these courts Huxter
followed the General, until he reached Oldcastle Street, in which is the
gate of Shepherd's Inn.

Here, just as he was within sight of home, a luckless slice of
orange-peel came between the General's heel and the pavement, and caused
the poor old fellow to fall backwards.

Huxter ran up to him instantly, and after a pause, during which the
veteran, giddy with his fall and his previous whisky, gathered, as he
best might, his dizzy brains together, the young surgeon lifted up the
limping General, and very kindly and good-naturedly offered to conduct
him to his home. For some time, and in reply to the queries which the
student of medicine put to him, the muzzy General refused to say where
his lodgings were and declared that they were hard by, and that he could
reach them without difficulty; and he disengaged himself from Huxter's
arm, and made a rush as if to get to his own home unattended: but he
reeled and lurched so, that the young surgeon insisted upon accompanying
him, and, with many soothing expressions and cheering and consolatory
phrases, succeeded in getting the General's dirty old hand under what
he called his own fin, and led the old fellow, moaning piteously, across
the street. He stopped when he came to the ancient gate, ornamented with
the armorial bearings of the venerable Shepherd. "Here 'tis," said he,
drawing up at the portal, and he made a successful pull at the gate
bell, which presently brought out old Mr. Bolton, the porter, scowling
fiercely, and grumbl