When they returned with him one glance was sufficient to show me that the Short 'Un was in a decidedly inebriated condition.

His friends, however, deeming it possible that their chance of appreciating my liberality depended upon his condition being such as he could answer questions with some sort of intelligence, proceeded to shake and pummel him into something approaching sobriety.

In one of his lucid intervals I inquired whether he felt equal to telling me in what direction the gentleman who had given him the shilling had ordered the cabman to drive him.

He turned the question over and over in his mind, and then arrived at the conclusion that it was "some hotel close to Waterloo." This was certainly vague, but it encouraged me to persevere.
"Think again," I said; "he must have given you some definite address." "Now I do remember," said the man, "it seems to me it was Foxwell's Hotel, Waterloo Road.

That's where it was, Foxwell's Hotel.