I don't think there's
a vice he hasn't got.'
The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence. A thought seemed to be
stirring in his mind.
'I'm speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication. I'm a fust-rate judge of
character, though I be but a pavement artist; but a picture's none the less
a picture, no matter where it is drawn. That's true, ain't it?'
'Quite true. A horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what
stable you put them into.'
The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain
eyes on Hubert, he said--
'Yes; see I made no bloomin' error when I said you was a man of eddication.
A literary gent, I should think. In the reporting line, most like. Down in
the luck like myself. What was it--drink? Got the chuck?'
'No,' said Hubert, 'never touch it. Out of work.'
'No offence, master, we're all mortal, we is all weak, and in misfortune we
goes to it. It was them boys that drove me to it.'
'How was that?'
'They was always round my show; no getting rid of them, and their remarks
created a disturbance; the perlice said he wouldn't 'ave it, and when the
perlice won't 'ave it, what's a poor man to do? They are that hignorant.
But what's the use of talking of it, it only riles me.
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