He said that generally they were not so good. They were not so steady and were liable to nerves and fancies.
“For example,” he said, “it’s impossible to get some of them to go to the strong room at all, because they say there is a horrible little Hindoo squatting there and scrabbling on the floor.”
There is no news and here is the poem. You must recover very quickly now, under the Paragon’s treatment, because the supply of verses is running short:—
Oh, Cynicism, let them bleat and sigh,
Their own hearts hard, belike, and chill as stone;
Give me the soul that’s tinged with irony,
For then I know that it has felt and known.