“A. Swinne Dell.”
If this transaction does not represent the high-water mark of knavery—if it does not show something akin to genius in an art that has many exponents, I scarcely know where one should look for evidence in this direction.
Five years after the disappearance of Mr. A. Swinne Dell from the scene of this coup of his, I caught a glimpse of him among the steerage passengers aboard a steamer that called at Madeira when I was spending a holiday at that lovely island. His frock-coat was giving signs (about the collar) of wear, and also (under the arms) of tear. I could not see his boots, but I felt sure that they were down at the heel. Still, he held his head jauntily as he pointed out to a fellow-passenger the natural charms of the landscape above Funchal.
Another of the old school who pursued a career of knavery by the light of the sacred lamp of journalism was, I regret to say, an Irishman. His powers of absorbing drink were practically unlimited. I never knew but one rival to him in this way, and that was when I was in South Africa. We had left our waggon, and were crouching in most uncomfortable postures behind a mighty cactus on the bank of a river, waiting for the chance of potting a gemsbok that might come to drink. Instead of the graceful gemsbok there came down to the water a huge hippopotamus. He had clearly been having a good time among the native mealies, and had come for some liquid refreshment before returning to his feast. He did not plunge into the water, but simply put his head down to it and began to drink. After five minutes or so we noticed an appreciable fall in the river. After a quarter of an hour great rocks in the river-bed began to be disclosed. At the end of twenty minutes the broad stream had dwindled away to a mere trickle of water among the stones. At the end of half an hour we began to think that he had had as much as was good for him—we wanted a kettleful of water for our tea—so I put an elephant cartridge (‘577) into my rifle and aimed at the brute’s eye. He lifted up his head out of pure curiosity, and perceiving that men with rifles were handy, slouched off, grumbling like a professional agitator on being turned out of a public house.
That hippopotamus was the only rival I ever knew to the old-school journalist whose ways I can recall—only he was never known to taste water. Like the man in one of H. J. Byron’s plays, he could absorb any “given”—I use the word advisedly—any given quantity of liquor.
“Are you ever sober, my man?” I asked of him one day.
“I’m sober three times a day,” he replied huskily. “I’m sober now. This is one of the times,” he added mournfully.
“You were blind drunk this morning—I can swear to that,” said I.
“Oh, yes,” he replied promptly. “But what’se good of raking up the past, sir? Let the dead past burits dead.” He took a step or two toward the door, and then returned. He carefully brushed a speck of dust off the rim of his hat. All such men wear the tallest of silk hats, and seem to feel that they would be scandalised by the appearance of a speck of dust on the nap. “D’ye know that I can take three crops out of myself in the day?” he inquired blandly.
“Three crops?”