A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. “All of which doesn’t help me in the slightest degree to pay back that money. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. ” The truth prevailed. The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities.
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