“But, Leo,” said I, “where are you bound?”
“To h——,” said he, in phrase quite jocular, in tones almost bitterly sad.
“Ah!” said I, “pack your kit then and step off at old Cadiz, for that is on the border.”
But the bugle blew for lunch, and the association of ideas drove Leo Bergin to his cabin, and, with a sickly promise to “come later,” I was left to ponder over the strange events of life—events that often lead to such meetings; the meetings, in turn, to lead to other events, even more strange and interesting.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
Well, my reader, while Leo Bergin is below, striving to compromise with his digestion, I will relate to you some of his peculiarities, that you may be prepared for his wonderful recital.
It was January 10th, 1898, as he entered my room on Great Russell Street, just opposite the British Museum, London, that I first saw him. He knocked at my door, gently; he entered my room, quietly; he sat down familiarly, and he opened the interview, promptly. I will not say Leo Bergin, on this occasion, was not modest; I will say he did not hesitate.
Had Leo Bergin remained silent I would have known that he was out of money, out of luck, out of friends, and almost out at the knees and elbows. But he evidently doubted my powers of perception, for, with superfluous frankness and eloquent volubility, he informed me that he only wanted a “loan” for a short time until he could “get on his feet.”
These stories were very common. They had been very “taking” with me, but desiring to avoid occupying a like position I had grown impatient and crusty, possibly a little hard-hearted, so I looked squarely into his fine eyes, and asked him “to get on his feet” at once.
He arose, looked me in the face, not with defiance or humiliation, not with shame or impudence, but like a man. He said, “I am down.” That was evident, but the soft saying of this had always cost me heavily, and, softening again, I asked who he was and what he could do.