"THE RIVER'S BRIM"
Daisy was sick of the Channel. He had crossed and recrossed it so often of late as to loathe its dancing waters, yawning in the face of Welsh and Wicklow mountains alike, wearied even of the lovely scenery that adorns the coast on either side.
He voted himself so tired in body and mind that he must stay a day or two in Dublin to refresh.
A man who balances on the verge of ruin always has plenty of money in his pocket for immediate necessities. The expiring flame leaps up with a flash; the end of the bottle bubbles out with a gush; and the ebbing tide of wealth leaves, here and there, a handful of loose cash on the deserted shore.
Daisy drove to the most expensive hotel in Dublin, where he ordered a capital breakfast and a comfortable room. The future seemed very uncertain. In obedience to an instinct of humanity that bids men pause and dally with any crisis of their fate, he determined to enjoy to-day, and let to-morrow take care of itself.
Nobody could be more unlikely to analyse his own sensations. It was not the practice of the Regiment; but had Daisy been given to self-examination it would have puzzled him to explain why he felt in such good humour, and so well satisfied—buoyed up with hope, when he ought to have been sunk and overwhelmed in despair.
"Waiter," said the fugitive, while he finished his tea and ordered a glass of curaçao, "has Mr. Sullivan been here this morning?"