He spoke savagely.  The past reeled before his eyes, all the cheery happy days of youth.  He could see himself at school, in the playing fields, at college, on the river, in London, at the clubs.  Other figures were in the picture, but he held the centre of the stage.  God in heaven, what a fool he had been!

The minutes glided by, and the ‘Bishop’ refilled his glass, glancing from time to time at Dick.  He was somewhat in awe of Carteret, but the whisky warmed him into speech.

“Look here,” he said with a spectral grin, “what’s enough for one is enough for two.  We’ll get along, old man, on my money, till the times mend.”

Dick rose, tall and stalwart; and then he smiled, not unkindly, at the squat, ungainly ‘Bishop.’

“You’re a good chap,” he said quietly.  “Shake hands, and-good-bye.”

“Why, where are you going?”

“Ah!  Who knows?  If the fairy tales are true, we may meet again later.”

Crisp stared at the speaker in horror.  He had reason to know that Dick was reckless, but this dare-devil despair apalled him.  Yet he had wit enough to attempt no remonstrance, so he gulped down his, whisky and waited.

“It’s no use craning at a blind fence,” continued Dick.  “Sooner or later we all come to the jumping-off place.  I’ve come to it to-night.  You can give me a decent funeral—­the governor will stump up for that —­and there will be pickings for you.  You can read the service, ‘Bishop.’  Gad!  I’d like to see you in a surplice.”

“Please, don’t,” pleaded the Rev. Tudor.

“He’ll be good for a hundred sovs.,” continued Dick.  “You can do the thing handsomely for half that.”

“For God’s sake, shut up.”

“Pooh! why shouldn’t you have your fee?  That hundred would start us nicely in the saloon business, and——­”

He was walking up and down the dusty, dirty floor.  Now he stopped, and his eyes brightened; but Crisp noted that his hands trembled.

“Give me that whisky,” he muttered.  “I want it now.”

The ‘Bishop’ handed him his glass.  Dick drained it, and laughed.

“Don’t,” said the ‘Bishop’ for the third time.  Dick laughed again, and slapped him on the shoulder.  Then the smile froze on his lips, and he spoke grimly.

“What does the apostle say—­hey?  We must die to live.  A straight tip!  Well—!  I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly.  I’m going to die to-night.  Don’t jump like that, you old ass; let me finish.  I’m going to die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business all the same.  Yes, my boy, and we’ll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyes on the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfect gentlemen.  Come on, let’s drink to my resurrection.  Here’s to the man who was, and is, and is to be.”

“You’re a wonder,” replied the ‘Bishop’ fervently.  “I understand.  You mean to be your own undertaker.”

“I do, my lord.  Now give me the baccy, some ink and paper, and an hour’s peace.”