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proves a goose, My cleverest of all companions—oh, Was worth nor ten pence nor ten thousand pounds! Come! Be yourself again! So endeth here The morning's lesson! Never while life lasts Do I touch card again. To breakfast now! To bed—I can't say, since you needs must start For station early—oh, the down-train still, First plan and best plan—townward trip be hanged! You're due at your big brother's—pay that debt. Then owe me not a farthing! Order eggs— And who knows but there's trout obtainable?" The fine man looks well-nigh malignant: then— "Sir, please subdue your manner! Debts are debts: I pay mine—debts of this sort—certainly. What do I care how you regard your gains. Want them or want them not? The thing I want Is—not to have a story circulate From club to club—how, bent on clearing out Young So-and-so, young So-and-so cleaned me, Then set the empty kennel flush again. Ignored advantage and forgave his friend— For why? There was no wringing blood from stone! Oh, don't be savage! You would hold your tongue, Bite it in two, as man may; but those small Hours in the smoking-room, when instance apt Rises to tongue's root, tingles on to tip, And the thinned company consists of six Capital well-known fellows one may trust! Next week, it's in the 'World.' No, thank you much. I owe ten thousand pounds: I'll pay them!" "Now,— This becomes funny. You've made friends with me? I can't help knowing of the ways and means! Or stay! they say your brother closets up Correggio's long-lost Leda: if he means To give you that, and if you give it me . . ." "I polished snob off to aristocrat? You compliment me! father's apron still Sticks out from son's court-vesture: still silk purse Roughs finger with some bristle sow-ear-born! Well, neither I nor you mean harm at heart! I owe you and shall pay you: which premised, 400 Why should what follows sound like flattery? The fact is—you do compliment too much Your humble master, as I own I am; You owe me no such thanks as you protest. The polisher needs precious stone no less Than precious stone needs polisher: believe I struck no tint from out you but I found Snug lying first 'neath surface hair-breadth-deep! Beside, I liked the exercise: with skill Goes love to show skill for skill's sake. You see, I'm old and understand things: too absurd It were you pitched and tossed away your life. As diamond were Scotch-pebble! all the more, That I myself misused a stone of price. Born and bred clever—people used to say Clever as most men, if not something more— Yet here I stand a failure, cut awry Or left opaque,—no brilliant named and known, Whatever my inner stuff, my outside's blank: I'm nobody—or rather, look that same— I'm—who I am—and know it; but I hold What in my hand out for the world to see? What ministry, what mission, or what book I'll say, book even? Not a sign of these! I began—laughing— 'All these when I like!' I end with—well, you've hit it!— 'This boy's cheque For just as many thousands as he he'll spare!' The first—I could, and would not; your spare cash I would, and could not: have no scruple, pray, But, as I hoped to pocket yours, pouch mine —When you are able!" "Which is—when to be? I've heard, great characters require a fall Of fortune to show greatness by uprise: They touch the ground to jollily rebound, Add to the Album! Let a fellow share Your secret of superiority! I know, my banker makes the money breed Money; I eat and sleep, he simply takes The dividends and cuts the coupons off, Sells out, buys in, keeps doubling, tripling cash, While I do nothing but receive and spend. But you, spontaneous generator, hatch A wind-egg; cluck, and forth struts Capital As Interest to me from egg of gold. I am grown curious: pay me by all means! How will you make the money?" "Mind your own— Not my affair. Enough: or money, or Money's worth, as the case may be, expect Ere month's end,—keep but patient for a month! Who's for a stroll to station? Ten's the time; Your man, with my things, follow in the trap; At stoppage of the down-train, play the arrived On platform, and you'll show the due fatigue Of the night-journey,—not much sleep,—perhaps, Your thoughts were on before you—yes, indeed. You join them, being happily awake With thought's sole object as she smiling sits At breakfast-table. I shall dodge meantime In and out station-precinct, wile away The hour till up my engine pants and smokes. No doubt, she goes to fetch you. Never fear! She gets no glance at me, who shame such saints!"
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