"That's it, no doubt. He seems to have got some sort of position in Liverpool society, and he didn't like the thought that there was a poor devil at Dudley who went about calling him a scoundrel. By-the-bye, someone told him that I had taken to liquor, and was on my way to destruction generally. I don't know who it could be."
"Oh, we all have candid friends that talk about us.
"It's true I have been drunk now and then of late. There's much to be said for getting drunk."
"Much," assented Narramore, philosophically.
Hilliard went on with his supper; his friend puffed tobacco, and idly regarded the cheque he was still holding.
"And what are you going to do?" he asked at length.
There came no reply, and several minutes passed in silence. Then Hilliard rose from the table, paced the floor once or twice, selected a cigar from a box that caught his eye, and, in cutting off the end, observed quietly—
"I'm going to live."
"Wait a minute. We'll have the table cleared, and a kettle on the fire."
While the servant was busy, Hilliard stood with an elbow on the mantelpiece, thoughtfully smoking his cigar. At Narramore's request, he mixed two tumblers of whisky toddy, then took a draught from his own, and returned to his former position.