Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. There is a small yewtree west of the church. Not at all. ‘Do not be foolish. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. Another glass, Jack. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged.
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