"No,
sir," he replied (his tones had lost their windy boisterousness--a
hard, metallic voice spoke to me), "not the one as you used to
know, praise be the Lord."
"And have you given up the old business?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," he replied, "that's all over; I've been a vile sinner
in my time, God forgive me for it. But, thank Heaven, I have
repented in time."
"Come and have a drink," I said, slipping my arm through his, "and
tell me all about it."
He disengaged himself from me, firmly but gently. "You mean well,
sir," he said, "but I have given up the drink."
Evidently he would have been rid of me, but a literary man,
scenting material for his stockpot, is not easily shaken off. I
asked after the old folks, and if they were still stopping with
him.
"Yes," he said, "for the present. Of course, a man can't be
expected to keep people for ever; so many mouths to fill is hard
work these times, and everybody sponges on a man just because he's
good-natured."
"And how are you getting on?" I asked.
"Tolerably well, thank you, sir. The Lord provides for His
servants," he replied with a smug smile.
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