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regular �howling-bags.�     He saw me
well enough, but I wasn�t going to speak first,
had best indeed not affect civility to him anyhow,
my instincts were always against it.     He was on
duty, I guess as a cloqueur.        Round to Bleecker
again, Bob Gun�s room.  Billington, Cahill.    A
bottle of whiskey.   I upstairs awhile, rejoined
them.   Talk, tods, Billington drunk, Cahill dit-
to, Bob Gun moderately affected, T. B. G not
at all, or at least not a jot more so than was 
good for him.    Songs.    Mrs Boley, Kettle and
one Munroe up.    Billington to bed, sick.   I left
at 2, read awhile and to bed.
  25.  Sunday.  Not up very early, but got Bob
Gun out for a walk.   He had been drinking this
morning and wasn�t sober, neither were Shepherd
or Cahill, whom we left in Bob Gun�s room.   I
wanted to get him off to prevent his indulging in
a day�s debauch.     Unluckily he would uncork
a fresh bottle of whiskey, the third purveyed since
last night, leaving it to the two who stayed behind,
with the usual consequences.     Off for a good long
walk, dropping in at Haney�s by the way for
half an hour.       Up to 50th street or so.   Being
like Peachem �sleaky in his liquor� Gun began
to inform me who Ledger is, the intelligence being
not uncurious.     The man is a London detective,
here on professional business, involving the arrest