. . . Now, when his delirium plunged him
back to Houndsditch, though it gave me a jerk, I could account for it
as reversion to an old habit that had been put off before ever we
met. What beat me was, that his second style, accent and choice of
words--though still fluent in cursing--far surpassed in purity any
speech I had heard from him in health.
"And there was something else about it. . . . While the gutter ran
Houndsditch, the man was a cur, cowering and yelping out terror under
strokes of a whip-lash. When it shifted accent, he lost all this and
started to _threaten_. Something like this it would run: 'Gawd!
Oh, Gawd, he's after me again. . . . See his rosy eyes follerin' like
rosy naphthas. . . . Oh, Gawd, hide me from this blighter. . . . Look
here, damn you! I'll trouble you to know who's master here.
You will halt where you are, you Foe, and not wag a tail until I give
you leave. That's better! Now, if you will kindly state your
business at that distance I'll state mine. . . . Is that all?
Quite so: and now you'll listen to me, and maybe reconsider yourself
.
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