2
At this point we will ask our Mr. Alfred Jingle to oblige again.
“Tell you what,” he said to his artist friend. “I was wrong about Sharper again. I thought he’d reached the limit of human mess and martyrdom. He hadn’t. He’d not got within a street of it. He’s there now. Right up to the limit and leaning over the edge.
“Down at Brighton this week-end with my old missus. Sitting out on the pier. Sunday morning. Listening to the band. Overture to ‘William Tell.’ Always is. Whenever I strike a band, it’s ‘William Tell’ or ‘Zampa.’ Every time.
“Suddenly the missus says to me, ‘Who’s that old chap over there with a face like a turnip?’
“I looked up. It was Luke Sharper. Looking ghastly. His hair was grey. His face was grey. Even his flannel trousers were grey. All grey and worn. I don’t mean the trousers particularly. General effect, you know. Ears drooping down with no life or motion in them. I went up to him and asked him what brought him down to Brighton.
“‘Go away,’ he said. ‘I’m a leper. I’m an outcast. I’m a pariah dog. Go before I bring misery on you.’
“I told him I’d chance it, and asked him again what he was doing at Brighton.
“‘I’ve eloped,’ he said.
“‘With whom?’ I asked.