He
shivered when he rose, and his knees were like to fail him. "Heavens!
what a mouth I've got!" he moaned, and I could see that the deadly,
bitter fur had already covered his palate. "Take a flask home, Billy,
and pull yourself together when you turn in." Billy grabbed fiercely at
the air. "These infernal flies have started early." The specks were
dancing before his eyes, and I fancy he had an ugly night before him;
but I didn't see him home.
THURSDAY.--I have found out a good deal about my stagy friend, and we
are quite confidential, especially late at night. He weeps plenteously
and recalls his own sins, but I think he is fairly truthful. A moving,
sordid history is his. Moralising is waste of time, but one might
almost moralise to the extent of boredom concerning the life of Billy
Devine, boozer, actor, betting-man.
Devine's peculiarly grandiose mode of telling his story was rather
effective at first hearing, but it would read like a burlesque, so I
translate his narrative into my own dialect.
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