Of my Incarceration in the Jug
When I reached the house it was pitch black, and a light shone forth only from an upper window. Sure enough, there was an officer ostentatiously set upon the doorstep, and keeping a sharp watch. I knew that I was like to get little by strategy out of Grubbe; it was in a bold front my only hopes lay; and so up I marched with a rolling gait, and, says I, feigning a drunken hiccough, “What’s agog?” I says, “and upon whose door are you sticking out your elbows?”
The trap gave me a glance, and seeing as I made for the door, pushed me off with his arm. “The Law is in charge here,” he says shortly.
“Law!” says I, with a stupid stare. “Law!” and I fell to laughing. “Damn me, what’s the old Antick atwixt Jenny Rumbold and me?” for that I knew was the name of a piece in the house.
He observed me from head to foot, without ever a suspicion. “Get you gone,” says he, contemptuously; “there’s no kixsy-winsy for you here.”
“Damme,” says I, with another hiccough,
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