Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious, and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following DRINKING SONG. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. “It’s very good,” she said. His assistance came too late. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. The one I have is a duplicate. The girl is in it as deeply as he is. He was in a curious state of desperation. .
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