"Mounseer Glendore! She knows no good of him."
"On the contrary," mildly pursued Hanger, sipping his grog, and nicely balancing it with sugar to his taste—"on the contrary, my good sir, she says he is a brave fellow—what she calls a brave garçon."
"Doesn't know him then, Mounseer Glendore! I wonder how many disguises he has worn in his life—how many women he has trapped and ruined! Ask her how long he has been here?"
The landlady answered—"Two years about the middle of next month."
"And he has never left this since?" Sharp went on, mixing himself by this time a second glass of brandy-and-water.
The landlady had never been a day without seeing him. He came to play his game of dominoes in the evening frequently. The dominoes exasperated the farmer. He would as soon see a man with crochet needles.
"D—n him!" Sharp shouted; "just like him."
I now ventured to interfere. Reuben Sharp was becoming violent with passion inflamed by brandy. The landlady was certain poor Monsieur Glendore would never rise from his bed again. I said to Sharp—"Whatever the wrong may be this man has done you, Mr. Sharp, pray remember he is dying. He is passing beyond your judgment."
"Is he? Passing from my grip, is he? No—no—Herbert Daker."
Sharp had sprung from his chair, and was shaking his fist in the air.