Thus summoning his energies, the individual in question appeared to revive, and moved on with a gait ofttimes deviating from the straight line, but not so much as to call for special interference on the part of the police, and with that intense expression which always accompanies a certain state of alcoholic inspiration. Diving down a side-street, he entered a door which seemed to be open all night long, and which led to the very innermost recesses of the _Daily Journal_. Giving a familiar nod to the porter as he passed by, and steering for a room on an upper floor, he took off his hat, sat himself down at a writing-desk, lit his cigar, spread out a sheet of paper before him, and took a pen in his hand. The furniture of the room was of the barest description, and mostly aimed at usefulness, rather than show or comfort or luxury. There were two other men in the room, but they took no notice of the new-comer, except to ask him to be quiet, and not to kick up such a row. One was gorgeously got up in evening dress. He had come from a dinner at Willis’s Rooms, with a Royal Duke in the chair. The other was putting the final touch to a thrilling description of a fire in the Seven Dials, accompanied by great destruction of property and loss of life. Thoroughly settling down to his work, the individual to whom I have already drawn the attention of the reader took out his note-book, and began studying its contents. At length, unable to find what he wanted, he exclaimed somewhat pettishly: ‘Where the dickens are my notes?’ ‘Why, in your hat, to be sure, you old fool!’ said one of the men, who, having finished his report, was preparing to go home. ‘I saw you put them into your hat directly you came in.’ ‘Well, you’re right,’ said the now sober pressman, looking into the last-named receptacle. ‘The fact is, I’ve been lushing,’ said he, ‘a little too much. Indeed, it was only as I went into the pub, and saw the people, I could get up anything worth writing about.’ ‘Oh, there is no reason to explain, my dear fellow,’ replied the gentleman thus addressed. ‘No, but I wish you to understand I am the victim of circumstances over which I had no control. It was business, not love of liquor, which reduced me to this state.’ ‘Of course. We all know you’re as virtuous as Father Mathew.’ But here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a small boy, sent by the sub-editor, to know if Mr. Wentworth was in, as he was waiting for copy. ‘Tell that respected gentleman,’ said the individual thus alluded to, ‘Mr. Wentworth is in, and in a few minutes will let him have as much copy as he requires,’ at the same time handing the boy a few slips for the printers to go on with.