“But that was the dirty man,” said I.
“And why not?” said he. “If his deed was dirty, his money was clean: don’t be deethery, man.”
“’Tis not fitting nor honourable,” said I, “for men the like of us to grow fat on his filth. It’s grass I’d be eating sooner.”
“That’s all bombazine, Michael, bombazine! I got two dollars more from the feller we chucked in the pit!”
“Mr. Monk, that was the pig!” said I.
“And why not?” said he. “If his life was bad then his end must be good; don’t be deethery.”
“You can’t touch pitch,” I said....
“Who’s touching pitch?” he cried. “Amn’t I entitled to the spoils of the valiant, the rewards of the conqueror....”
“Bombazine!” says I to him.
“O begod!” he says, “I never struck fist on a lad the like of you, with your bombazine O! I grant you it doesn’t come affable like, but what costs you nothing can’t be dear; as for compunctions, you’ll see, I fatten on ’em!”