n one of the numerous public-houses in the town of St. Peter-Port, surrounded by a gang of "roughs," a man, still young, sat on a stool.
His face was terribly emaciated, and on it, one could discern all the traces of that demon, alcohol.
In one of his agitated hands, he held a half-filled glass, in the other, a short, blackened clay-pipe.
His glassy eyes had a strange look.
He made an effort to carry the tumbler which he was holding to his lips, but his nerves and muscles refused to act.
Here, we may as well say that this man's name was Tom Soher.
"What's the matter, Tom?" said one of the men.
"Nothing," responded he, making use of a very old form of lie.
At this reassuring statement, the company resumed their conversation, and their drink.