Harmony being restored, the bottle of gin was drunk, and another sent for. The fun grew fast and furious. The conviviality was of the choicest character, or rather it degenerated into an orgie. Does the reader recollect that splendid passage of Lord Bacon, in which he tells us, ‘In Orpheus’s theatre all the birds assembled, and forgetting their several appetites—some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel—stood all sociably together, listening to the concert, which no sooner ceased, or was drowned by some louder noise, but every beast returned to his own nature.’ The gin in the low lodging-house had produced a similar effect. While it lasted the partakers for the time being had forgot their several appetites—some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel—and stood or sat all sociably together. No sooner had the supply of liquor ceased than the good-fellowship became changed into hate and discord, as the various natures of the guests reasserted themselves. The tramp’s female companion became suspicious. She was not so drunk as the rest, and had become conscious that there was a reward of ten pounds offered to anyone who should give such evidence as might lead to the conviction of the perpetrator or perpetrators of the recent outrage. The company she knew comprised more than one individual who was quite ready to earn a ten-pound note in such a way, and she determined, as far as it was in her power, not to give them the chance. Unperceived she slipped out, and fled as fast as she could and as far as she could. All at once there was a cry on the part of the tramp and his friends, ‘Where’s Sal?’ Some searched for her under the table, others investigated the sleeping apartments, others the back premises, which were of the most capacious kind, but no Sal was to be found. The curate summoned up all his dignity, and, approaching the inebriated tramp, said to him: ‘My friend, I have a painful revelation to make.’ ‘A wot?’ ‘A painful revelation.’ ‘I don’t know wot yer mane; but out with it, old man, and don’t stand there as if you was chokin’.’ ‘Your wife has bolted.’ ‘Oh, has she? Let her bolt. She’s no wife of mine. There are others as good as she.’ ‘You don’t seem much affected by the loss,’ replied the Oxonian. ‘You’re quite a philosopher. You seem perfectly aware how _femina mutabile est_.’ ‘Now, don’t come that nonsense with me,’ said the man angrily. ‘When I drinks, I drinks; and I don’t bother my head about anything else. Why should I? As to women, they’re like all the rest of us—here to-day, gone to-morrow.’ ‘Ah, I see you’re a man of the world.’ ‘I believe yer, my boy,’ said the tramp, who felt flattered at the intended compliment. ‘You don’t think she’s gone to split,’ whispered one of the party in the tramp’s ear. ‘No, I should think not. Let me catch her at it!’ ‘Or me,’ added his chum. ‘We’ll be sure to mark her, and serve her d--- well!’