He gravely took the purse from me, and, stooping down to the binnacle light, counted over the money, scrutinizing carefully the pieces as he went.
“And who is to say this isn't 'swag'?” said he, as he closed the purse.
“The easiest answer to that,” said I, “is, would it be likely for a thief to show his booty, not merely to a stranger, but to a stranger who suspected him?”
“Well, that is something, I confess,” said he, slowly.
“It ought to be more,—it ought to be everything. If distrust were not a debasing sentiment, obstructing the impulses of generosity, and even invading the precincts of justice, you would see far more reason to confide in than to disbelieve me.”
“I 've been done pretty often afore now,” he muttered, half to himself.
“What a fallacy that is!” cried I, contemptuously. “Was not the pittance that some crafty impostor wrung from your compassion well repaid to you in the noble self-consciousness of your generosity? Did not your venison on that day taste better when you thought of his pork chop? Had not your Burgundy gained flavor by the memory of the glass of beer that was warming the half-chilled heart in his breast? Oh, the narrow mockery of fancying that we are not better by being deceived!”
“How long is it since you had your head shaved?” he asked dryly.
“I have never been the inmate of an asylum for lunatics,” said I, divining and answering the impertinent insinuation.
“Well, I own you are a rum un,” said he, half musingly.