The inn was a military haunt. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. '—'What is it, Mint?' asked all three. The gentleman catched him i' th' fact, and we shut him up for safety i' that pris'n. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that.
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