"Don't," said the 'Bishop' feebly.
The two smoked on in silence. The Rev. Tudor Crisp reflected
mournfully that one day a maiden aunt might withdraw the pittance that
kept his large body and small soul together. This unhappy thought sent
him to the demijohn, whence he extracted two stiff drinks.
"No," said Dick, pushing aside the glass. "I want to think, to think.
Curse it, there must be a way out of the wood. If I'd capital we could
start a saloon. We know the ropes, and could make a living at it,
more, too, but now we can't even get one drink on credit. Why don't
you say something, you stupid fool?"
He spoke savagely. The past reeled before his eyes, all the cheery
happy days of youth. He could see himself at school, in the playing
fields, at college, on the river, in London, at the clubs. Other
figures were in the picture, but he held the centre of the stage. God
in heaven, what a fool he had been!
The minutes glided by, and the 'Bishop' refilled his glass, glancing
from time to time at Dick. He was somewhat in awe of Carteret, but the
whisky warmed him into speech.
"Look here," he said with a spectral grin, "what's enough for one is
enough for two.
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