He took over, doing his best to rearrange his overly sensitive member back into his pants. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. He was snoring stupidly. 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. "Don't be angry with me, Thames," continued Sheppard, in a tone calculated, as he thought, to appease his companion's indignation.
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