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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. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. I tried painting and couldn’t get on. And my word's law—with you, at least," she added, bestowing a cutting glance upon her husband. In this state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house, and driven out of the Mint.
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