" I started. Where had I heard that voice
before? The man was clad in an old shooting-jacket; his trousers were
out at the knee, and his linen was very dirty; yet there was a something
about him--a kind of distinction--which was impressive. After launching
his expression of contempt at us, he buried his face in his pot and took
a mighty drink. Slowly my memory aided me, and under that knobby,
pustuled skin I traced the features of Dicky Nash, the most dreaded
political journalist of my time. Often I had heard that voice roaring
blasphemies with a vigour that no other man could equal; often had I
seen that sturdy form extended beside the editorial chair, while the
fumes in the office told tales as to the cause of the fall. And now here
was Dicky--ragged, dirty, and evidently down on his luck. I soon made
friends with him by owning his superior authority, and he kindly took a
quart of ale at my expense. This was a man who used to earn L2,000 a
year after he resigned his University fellowship.
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