" The
rest was in a religious vein, and quite conventional.
I have never seen any one more put out than Nares, when
I handed him this letter. He had read but a few words,
before he cast it down; it was perhaps a minute ere he
picked it up again, and the performance was repeated
the third time before he reached the end.
"It's touching, isn't it?" said I.
For all answer, Nares exploded in a brutal oath; and it
was some half an hour later that he vouchsafed an
explanation. "I'll tell you what broke me up about
that letter," said he. "My old man played the fiddle,
played it all out of tune: one of the things he played
was 'Martyrdom,' I remember--it was all martyrdom to
me. He was a pig of a father, and I was a pig of a
son; but it sort of came over me I would like to hear
that fiddle squeak again. Natural," he added; "I guess
we're all beasts."
"All sons are, I guess," said I. "I have the same
trouble on my conscience: we can shake hands on that."
Which (oddly enough, perhaps) we did.
Amongst the papers we found a considerable sprinkling
of photographs; for the most part either of very
debonair-looking young ladies or old women of the
lodging-house persuasion.
Pages:
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375