He entered the army, early in life, and for a time he was
petted and courted in Dublin society. The man was handsome,
accomplished, and brilliantly clever, and success seemed to follow him.
He sold out of the army and went to the Bar, where he succeeded during
many years. No one could have lived a happier, fuller, or more fruitful
life than he did before he slid into loose habits. His only pastime was
the pursuit of literature, and he finished his big history of a certain
great war while he was in full practice at the Chancery Bar. Power
seemed to reside in him; fortune poured gifts on him; and he lost all.
In an incredibly short space of time he drank away his practice, his
reputation, his hopes of high honour, his last penny.
Thus it was that my historian came to beg of me for that muddy
penn'orth.
I may as well finish the Doctor's story. If I were writing fiction the
tale would be scouted as improbable, yet I am going to state plain
facts. A firm of lawyers hunted up the Doctor, and informed him that he
had succeeded to the sum of L30,000.
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