One night Edward Hooper, having consulted his watch frequently, and compared it with the clock of slow notoriety in the warehouse¹ in Tooley Street, until his patience was almost gone, at last received the warning hiss², and had his books shut and put away before the minute-gun began to boom. He was out at the door and half-way up the lane, with his hat a good deal on one side of his head and very much over one eye, before the last shot was fired.

 

“It’s a jolly time of day this—the jolliest hour of the twenty-four,” muttered Ned to himself, with a smile.

 

His speech was thick, and his smile was rather idiotic³, by reason of his having drunk more than his usual allowance at dinner that day.

 

By way of mending matters, Ned resolved to renew his potations immediately, and announced his intentions to himself in the following words:

 

“Com—mi—boy—y–you’ll go—ave an—urrer por-o-porer—thash yer sort!”

 

At a certain point in the drunkard’s downward career he ceases to have any control over himself, and increases his speed from the usual staggering jog-trot to a brisk zigzag⁴ gallop⁵ that generally terminates abruptly⁶ in the grave.

 

Ned Hooper, a kind-hearted fellow enough, and thinking himself not so bad as he seemed because of that same kind-heartedness, had reached the galloping⁷ point, and was travelling unusually fast along the high road to ruin.

 

Being of a generous nature, Ned was in the habit of extending his patronage⁸ to various beer-shops, among others to that one near London Bridge which has been described as the property of Gorman. Business, pleasure, or fancy led him to that shop on the evening in question. He was

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