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wi' you, and your rowdy-dowing Flock as well." At her Voice, a number of Sailors in whose Flexibility lies their Preservation from the Hazards of Drink, are seen to freeze.
    "Do not oppose her," Jellow advises, "for she is a first-rate of an hundred Guns, and her Broadside is Annihilation."
    "Thankee, Jellow,— slow again, I see."
    "Oh dear," Bodine putting his hat back on and sighing. "Apologies, Sir and Madam, and much Happiness of your Dog."
    "You are the owners of this Marvel?" inquires Mason.
    "We prefer 'Exhibitors,' " says Mr. Jellow.
    "Damme, they'd better," grumphs the Dog, as if to himself.
    "Why, here is The Pearl of Sumatra!" calls Dixon, who for some while has been growing increasingly desperate for a Drink, "And a jolly place it seems."
    "Fender-Belly is buying!" shouts some mischievous Sailor, forever unidentified amid the eager Rush for the Entry of this fifth- or sixth-most-notorious sailors' Haunt upon the Point, even in whose Climate of general Iniquity The Pearl distinguishes itself, much as might one of its Eponyms, shining 'midst the decadent Flesh of some Oyster taken from the Southern Sea.
    "How about a slug into y'r Breadroom, there, Fido?"
    "Pray you, call me Fang— Well, and yes I do like a drop of Roll-me-in-the-Kennel now and then...."
    Inside, seamen of all ranks and ratings mill slowly in a murk of pipe-smoke and soot from cheap candles, whilst counter-swirling go a choice assortment of Portsmouth Polls in strip'd and floral Gowns whose bold reds, oranges, and purples are taken down in this light, bruised, made oily and worn, with black mix'd in everywhere, colors turning ever toward Night. Both Surveyors note, after a while, that the net Motion of the Company is away from the Street-Doors and toward the back of the Establishment, where, upon a length of turf fertiliz'd with the blood and the droppings of generations of male Poultry, beneath a bright inverted Cone of Lanthorn Light striking blue a great ever-stirring Knot of Smoke, and a Defaulter merry beyond the limits of cock-fight etiquette suspended in a basket above the Pit, a Welsh Main is in progress. Beyond this, a Visto of gaming tables may be made out, and further back a rickety Labyrinth of Rooms for sleeping or debauchery, all receding like headlands into a mist.
    The Learned D., drawn by the smell of Blood in the Cock-Pit, tries to act nonchalant, but what can they expect of him? How is he supposed to ignore this pure Edge of blood-love? Oh yawn yes of course, seen it all before, birds slashing one another to death, sixteen go in, one comes out alive, indeed mm-hmm, and a jolly time betwixt, whilst the Substance we are not supposed to acknowledge drips and flies ev'rywhere— "'There, Learnèd," calls Mrs. Jellow brusquely, "we must leave the birds to their Work." Beneath the swaying Gamester, the general pace of the Room keeps profitably hectic. From the Labyrinth in back come assorted sounds of greater and lesser Ecstasy, along with percussions upon Flesh, laughter more and less feign'd, furniture a-thump, some Duetto of Viol and Chinese Flute, the demented crowing of fighting-cocks waiting their moment, cries in Concert at some inaudible turn of a card or roll of the Fulhams high and low, calls for Bitter and Three-Threads rising ever hopeful, like ariettas in the shadow'd Wilderness of Rooms, out where the Lamps are fewer, and the movements deeper with at least one more Grade of Intent...At length the Dog halts, having led them to where, residing half out of doors, fram'd in cabl'd timbers wash'd in from a wreck of long ago, an old piece of awning held by a gnaw'd split, ancient Euphroe between her and the sky with its varied Menace, sits Dark Hepsie, the Pythoness of the Point.
    "Here," the Dog butting at Mason, "here is the one you must see."
    Instantly, Mason concludes (as he will confess months later to Dixon) that it all has to do with Rebekah, his wife, who died two years ago this February next. Unable to abandon her,