"No," replied Jack, peremptorily. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. The first of these, whom he addressed as Mr. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. What his head conceived his hand executed.
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