ferent opinion;
they bundled him into his room and locked him in from the other side,
and shortly after burst into their own room, and were more garrulous
than articulate.

Cutler, thus disposed of, kept saying and shouting and whining that he
must have "t'other bottle." In short, any one at a distance would have
thought he was announcing sixteen different propositions, so various
were the accents of anger, grief, expostulation, deprecation,
supplication, imprecation, and whining tenderness in which he declared
he must have "t'other bo'l."

At last he came bump against the door of communication. "Neighbor,"
said he, "your wuship, I mean, great man of war."

"Well, sir?"

"Let's have t'other bo'l."

Cowen's eyes flashed; he took out his phial of laudanum and emptied
about a fifth part of it into the bottle. Cutler whined at the door,
"Do open the door, your wuship, and let's have t'other (hic)."

"Why, the key is on your side."

A feeble-minded laugh at the discovery, a fumbling with the key, and
the door opened, and Cutler stood in the doorway, with his cravat
disgracefully loose and his visage wreathed in foolish smiles. His
eyes joggled; he pointed with a mixture of surprise and low cunning at
the table. "Why, there is t'other bo'l! Let's have'm."

"Nay," said Cowen, "I drain no bottles at this time; one glass suffices
me. I drink your health." He raised his glass.

Cutler grabbed the bottle and said, brutally, "And I'll drink yours!"
and shut the door with a slam, but was too intent on his prize to lock
it.

Cowen sat and listened.

He heard the wine gurgle, and the drunkard draw a long breath of
delight.

Then there was a pause; then a snatch of song, rather melodious and
more articulate than Mr. Cutler's recent attempts at discourse.

Then another gurgle and another loud "Ah!"

Then a vocal attempt, which broke down by degrees.

Then a snore.

Then a somnolent remark--"All right!"

Then a staggering on to his feet. Then a swaying to and fro, and a
subsiding against the door.

Then by and by a little reel at the bed and a fall flat on the floor.

Then stertorous breathing.

Cowen sat still at the keyhole some time, then took off his boots and
softly mounted his chair, and applied his eye to the peep-hole.

Cutler was lying on his stomach between the table and the bed.

Cowen came to the door on tiptoe and turned the handle gently; the door
yielded.

He lost nerve for the firs