"We'll see," returned the thief-taker. Wood was an old friend of mine—and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound 'prentice to him. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. “There was a keg, hash, LSD, pot, you know, the usual. This was what he missed. Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. I’m a man, and I know what I mean. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance.
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