On the racecourse I'm a gambler, I'm a blackleg (if you believe
all you hear); but when the horses are passing the post and all the
people are mad, I am quite quiet. I pray sir, to win; but I only pray
because my children's faces are before me. Yes, sir, take away the drink
and give me a chance of honest work and I might nearly be a good man."
The fellow's face grew almost youthful as he spouted, and I thought,
"That little girl upstairs is very young. Her father is not an old man
after all." Old he looks--battered, scared, frail; but he has a young
heart. What a compound! The more I meditate, the more I am convinced
that we shall have to invent a new morality. The standards whereby we
judge men are far too rigid. Who shall say that Devine is bad? He is a
victim to the disease of alcoholism, and his disease brings with it fits
of selfishness. But there is another Devine--the real man--who is
neither diseased nor selfish; and both are labelled as disreputable.
When next I see poor Billy on the floor after his yelling fit I shall
think of him in a friendly way.
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