Doctor Southwick, knowing no better, called my malady by a learned name, but I knew to what I owed it.

Never shall I forget my delight when Jimmy broke into my room one day with a pound-tin of the Arcadia.

Weak though I was, I opened my window and, seizing the half-empty packet of tobacco that had made me ill, hurled it into the street.

The tobacco scattered before it fell, but I sat at the window gloating over the packet, which lay a dirty scrap of paper, where every cab might pass over it.

What I call the street is more strictly a square, for my windows were at the back of the inn, and their view was somewhat plebeian.