Good chap enough once on a day, but can't afford to
be seen with him now." The soaker is amazed to find that women are
afraid of him a little, and shrink from him--in fact, the only people
who are cordial with him are the landlords, among whom he is treated as
a sort of irresponsible baby. "I may as well have his money as anybody
else. He shan't get outrageously drunk here, but he may as well moisten
his clay and keep himself from being miserable. If he gets the jumps in
the night that's his look-out." That is the soaker's friend. The man is
not unkind; he is merely hardened, and his morals, like those of nearly
all who are connected with the great Trade, have suffered a twist. When
the soaker's last penny has gone, he will receive from the landlord many
a contemptuously good-natured gift--pity it is that the lost wastrel
cannot be saved before that weariful last penny huddles in the corner of
his pocket.
While the harrowing descent goes on our suffering wretch is gradually
changing in appearance: the piggish element that is latent in most of us
comes out in him; his morality is sapped; he will beg, borrow, lie, and
steal; and, worst of all, he is a butt for thoughtless young fellows.
The last is the worst cut of all, for the battered, bloodless, sunken
ne'er-do-well can remember only too vividly his own gallant youth, and
the thought of what he was drives him crazed.
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