“Tea? No! No tea for me. The thought of eating makes me sick. I must have a drink. Young man,” he said, “go to church and stick to your church if you can and as long as you can.” He stumbled downstairs and left Paul looking after him in amazement and some pity. CHAPTER XXIII The night had fallen, black, with breaking clouds, and the moon struggling through, as Paul set out for church. Ignorant of the city’s streets, his instinct for direction, developed on many a northern trail, guided him aright as he cut across the city by back streets and lanes towards his destination. Passing along a dark street, he saw before him a group of men, noisy, hilarious, quarrelling. Drawing near, he discovered the group to consist of three men assisting a fourth, apparently drunk, and blocking the sidewalk. He was not entirely ignorant of the ways of men in liquor, and was proceeding quietly on his way when he was hailed by the drunken man. “Hello there, boy! Come here, boy! Come here, I want you.” “What do you want?” replied Paul, drawing near. “Come here, boy,” said the drunken man, with great gravity. “I want shplain shomething. Lemme go. Want shee thish young man. Hands off. My name’sh Dan Tussock, can’t come over me.” “That’s all right, Dan. Come along now. Don’t go making a row,” said one of his friends, soothingly. “Lemme go, I tell you. Walk by myshelf. Here, boy!” He seized Paul by the coat collar and hung, swaying. Paul stood regarding them curiously. “What are you looking at, young man? Did you never see a man pickled before?” The speaker had an evil face, cunning, and with a shaggy growth of whiskers. “Yes, I have seen men pickled,” said Paul. “But if this gentleman wants to speak to me I am going to hear what he has to say.” “That’sh all ri’. Don’t take no lip from ole Sammy here. My name’sh Dan Tussock, can’t come over me.” “Ah, come along, Dan,” said “whiskers.” “The cops will get you.” “Copsh? Who’sh ’fraid copsh? Copsh know Dan Tussock, Sammy.” “Sure they do, Dan,” said another of the men, smooth of face and smooth of manner. “We are just getting our friend here home,” he added in an aside to Paul. “We don’t want him run in, you see.” But Dan Tussock was very alert, although thoroughly “pickled.” “Sure thing,” he said. “Friendsh sheeing me home. Shay, meet my friend, Mishter—shay, what’sh your name?” to “smooth face.” “Why you know your old chum, Dan. You know my name—Sissons.” “Sure I do. Shis-sh—Shish-sh—what’sh your name?” “Sissons, you know. Say, Dan, you are pretty well stewed when you can’t say my name,” said the man, with a loud laugh. “Meet my friend, Shish—Shish—Shis-sh— What the hell name is thish anyway?” “Sissons! Sissons!” said the smooth-faced fellow, sharply. “That’sh what I say. Mr. Shis-sh—meet my friend, Mr. Shis-sh—What’s your name, boy?” “Paul.”