WRECKED IN PORT.
A SERIAL STORY BY THE AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP."

CHAPTER VII. A NEW FRIEND.

WHEN they stood in the street, with the
fresh night wind blowing upon them, the
old man stopped, and, peering anxiously
into his companion's face, said, abruptly,
"Better?"

"Much better, thank you; quite well, in
fact. There's no occasion for me to trouble
you any more; I——"

"What? All gaff—eh? Old Jack
Byrne sold—eh? Swallowed his brandy,
and want to cut? Is that the caper?"

"I beg your pardon, I don't quite clearly
understand you, I'm sorry to say"—for
Walter knew by the tone of his voice that
the old man was annoyed—"I'm very
weak, and rather stupid—I mean to say in
—in the ways and the talk of London—and
I don't clearly follow what you said to me
just now; only you were so kind to me at
first, that——"

"Provinces!" muttered the old man to
himself. "Just like me; treating him to
my pavement patter, and thinking he understood
it! All right, I think, as far as
one can judge; though God knows that's
often wrong enough!" Then, aloud, "Kind!
nonsense! I'm an odd old skittle, and talk
an odd language; but I've seen the ups
and downs of life, my lad, and can give
you good advice if I can't give anything
else. Have you anything to do to-night?
Nothing? Sure I'm not keeping you
from the opera or any swell party in Park-
lane?  No! Then come home with me
and have, a bit o' pickled salmon and a
glass of cold gin-and-water, and let's talk
matters out."

Before he had concluded his sentence,
the old man had slipped Joyce's arm
through his own, and was making off at
a great rate and also with an extraordinary
shamble, in which his shoulder appeared to
act as a kind of cutwater, while his legs
followed considerably in the rear. Walter
held on to him as best he could, and in this
fashion they made their way through the
back streets, across St. Martin's-lane, and
so into Leicester-square. Then, as they
arrived in front of a brilliantly lighted
establishment, at the door of which cabs
laden with fashionably dressed men and
gaudily dressed women were continually
disgorging their loads, while a never ceasing
stream of pedestrians poured in from the
street, Jack Byrne came to a sudden halt,
and said to his companion, "Now I'm
going to enjoy myself!"

Walter Joyce had noticed the style of
people pouring in through the turnstiles
and paying their admission money at the
brilliantly lit boxes; and as he heard these
words he unconsciously drew back. You
see he was but a country-bred young man,
and had not yet been initiated into the
classical enjoyments of London life. Jack
Byrne felt the tug at his arm, and looked
at him curiously. "What is it?" said he.
"You thought I was going in there? I?
Oh, my dear young friend, you'll have to
learn a great deal yet; but you're on the
suspicious lay, and that's a chalk to you!
You thought I'd hocussed the brandy I
gave you at Bliffkins's; you thought I was
going to take you into this devil's crib, did
you? Not I, my dear boy; I'd as soon
take you in as myself, and that's saying a
good deal. No; I told you I was going to
enjoy myself—so I am. My enjoyment is
in watching that door, and marking those
who go through it—not in speculating on
what's going on inside, but in waiting for