At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said. "Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor. ’ ‘Addlepated imbecile, Hilary,’ corrected Gerald calmly.
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