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. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. An ordinary type, of course—” Mrs. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. My heart misgives me.
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