Now he stopped, and
his eyes brightened; but Crisp noted that his hands trembled.
"Give me that whisky," he muttered. "I want it now."
The 'Bishop' handed him his glass. Dick drained it, and laughed.
"Don't," said the 'Bishop' for the third time. Dick laughed again, and
slapped him on the shoulder. Then the smile froze on his lips, and he
spoke grimly.
"What does the apostle say--hey? We must die to live. A straight tip!
Well--! I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly. I'm going to die
to-night. Don't jump like that, you old ass; let me finish. I'm going
to die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business all
the same. Yes, my boy, and we'll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyes
on the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfect
gentlemen. Come on, let's drink to my resurrection. Here's to the man
who was, and is, and is to be."
"You're a wonder," replied the 'Bishop' fervently. "I understand. You
mean to be your own undertaker."
"I do, my lord. Now give me the baccy, some ink and paper, and an
hour's peace."
But the hour passed and found Dick still composing.
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