I had taken seven to four eight
times in hundreds, and that broke me." The ragged raffish man never
thinks that he was quite ready to plunder other people; he grows
inarticulate with rage only when he remembers how he was bitten instead
of being the biter. His watery eyes slant as you near a roadside inn,
and he is certain to issue an invitation. Then you see what really
brought him low. It may be a lovely warm day, when the acrid reek of
alcohol is more than usually abhorrent; but he must take something
strong that will presently inflame the flabby bulge of his cheeks and
set his evil eyes watering more freely than ever. Gin is his favourite
refreshment, because it is cheap, and produces stupefaction more rapidly
than any other liquid. Very probably he will mix gin and ale in one
horrid draught--and in that case you know that he is very far gone
indeed on the downward road. If he can possibly coax the change out of
you when the waiter puts it down he will do so, for he cannot resist the
gleam of the coins, and he will improvise the most courageous lies with
an ease which inspires awe. He thanks you for nothing; he hovers between
cringing familiarity and patronage; and, when you gladly part with him,
he probably solaces himself by muttering curses on your meanness or your
insolence.
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