He knew that Philip, Cornelius,
and I, never tattled. And so he cast the muzzle of sham reformation
from his mouth.
He was silent for a while, recollections of past experience rising
vividly in his mind, as they will when a man comes to a certain stage
of drink.
"Sure, luck is an idiot," he burst out presently, wrathful from his
memories. "It reminds me of a fool of a wench that passes over a
gentleman and flings herself at a lout. For, lookye, there was two of
us in London, a rascal Irishman and me, that lived in the same
lodgings. We did that to save cost, after we'd both had dogs' fortune
at the cards and the faro-table. If it hadn't been for a good-natured
woman or two--I spoke ill of the breed just now, but they have their
merits--we'd have had no lodgings at all then, except the Fleet,
maybe, or Newgate, if it had come to that. Well, as I was saying, we
were both as near starvation as ever _I_ wish to be, the Irishman and
me. There we were, poverty-stricken as rats, both tarred with the same
stick, no difference between us except he was an ugly brute, and a
scoundrel, and a man of no family. Now if either of us deserved good
fortune, it certainly was me; there can't be any question of that. And
yet, here I am, driven to the damnedest tedious time of it for bare
food and shelter, and compelled to drink ale when I'm--oh, curse it,
gentlemen, was ever such rotten luck?"
Cornelius, whom disillusion had stricken into speechlessness at this
revelation of the old Ned under the masquerade, sighed heavily and
looked pained.
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