"Farrell, you know! He's no
sort of class. He--he deserves punishing, but he don't mean any
harm, if you understand." Here Jimmy faced about with an ingenuous
smile. "I'm a bit of a fool myself, you see, and must speak up for
my order."
"But you speak up too late, my boy," answered Foe. "What's the use
of telling me that Farrell is no class? As if I didn't know _that_!
. . . Why, man, I didn't _choose_ Farrell, to pay my attentions to
him. If the gods had paid me the compliment of sending along the
late Mr. Gladstone, or the present Archbishop of Canterbury (whoever
he may be), or General Booth (if he's alive), to knock out eight
years of my life like so many skittles in an alley, I'd have felt
flattered, of course. But they didn't: they sent along Farrell, and
I bow my head before a higher wisdom which, you'll allow, has been
justified of its child. Could the late Mr. Gladstone--since we've
instanced him--have done it more expeditiously, more thoroughly, with
a neater turn of the wrist? . . . No. Very well, then! Better men
than I have married their cooks and been content to recognise that it
just happened so.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184