“No,” said the other coolly. “Devil because I saw through the Uncle Rounce business? Perhaps I am,” he continued, as he saw Max wince, “for I never believed in the Excelsior game—to go up higher—because it’s so cold. I’m not a pure-minded man, Max, but would rather stay in the valley, and lay my head on the nice, pleasant, plump young woman’s breast—so comfortable and cosy and warm. Eh, you dog—eh?”
He poked Max with his stick as he spoke, and then chuckled at the other’s horrified air.
“I’m no cackle-spinner, like you, Max; I never went through the world saying it was all vanity and vexation of spirit, and a vale of tears; and howled hymns, declaring that I was sick of it, and wanted to die and get out of it as soon as I could, because it was such a wicked, wretched place. I never told people I had a call, like you did; and played shepherd in a white choker, and went and delivered addresses to the lost lambs outside the fold.”
“They’ll hear you in the outer office,” cried Max vainly, for Hopper went on:—
“Because I was always a wolf, and liked the world, and thought it very beautiful, and loved it; and when I caught a lost lamb I took him and ate him right off, because it was my nature. Not like you, my gentle shepherd, who, of course without any vanity or self-interest, coaxed the lambs into the fold; and when you killed one, you had him nicely dressed with mint sauce. Eh, Max? mint sauce—the tap out of the barrels that they take into the bank.”
“Are you mad?” exclaimed Max, at last.
“Mad as a hatter,” said the old fellow, grinning; “that’s why I chose the wrong way. Not like you. Ah, Max, when we both die, what a beautiful plump cherub you’ll make up aloft there, and what an ugly old sinner I shall be down below! How sorry you’ll be for me, won’t you?”
“Pray, let us bring this interview to an end,” gasped Max.
“No hurry,” said Hopper. “I told you I was bilious when you were spinning that bunch of seals of yours. This is all bile. I’m getting rid of it. I shall be better afterwards. I have not had a go at you for a twelvemonth. I haven’t half done yet. I’m not a pithy man, like you—more pith than heart—but long-winded. Ah, I’m a wicked old wretch, ain’t I, and always turned a deaf ear to what was good?”
“But I am busy,” pleaded Max.