“Come, come,” said the cosmopolitan with serious air, almost displeased; “though I yield to none in admiration of earnestness, yet, I think, even earnestness may have limits. To human minds, strong language is always more or less distressing. Besides, Polonius is an old man—as I remember him upon the stage—with snowy locks. Now charity requires that such a figure—think of it how you will—should at least be treated with civility. Moreover, old age is ripeness, and I once heard say, ‘Better ripe than raw.’”
“But not better rotten than raw!” bringing down his hand with energy on the table.
“Why, bless me,” in mild surprise contemplating his heated comrade, “how you fly out against this unfortunate Polonius—a being that never was, nor will be. And yet, viewed in a Christian light,” he added pensively, “I don’t know that anger against this man of straw is a whit less wise than anger against a man of flesh, Madness, to be mad with anything.”
“That may be, or may not be,” returned the other, a little testily, perhaps; “but I stick to what I said, that it is better to be raw than rotten. And what is to be feared on that head, may be known from this: that it is with the best of hearts as with the best of pears—a dangerous experiment to linger too long upon the scene. This did Polonius. Thank fortune, Frank, I am young, every tooth sound in my head, and if good wine can keep me where I am, long shall I remain so.”
“True,” with a smile. “But wine, to do good, must be drunk. You have talked much and well, Charlie; but drunk little and indifferently—fill up.”
“Presently, presently,” with a hasty and preoccupied air. “If I remember right, Polonius hints as much as that one should, under no circumstances, commit the indiscretion of aiding in a pecuniary way an unfortunate friend. He drules out some stale stuff about ‘loan losing both itself and friend,’ don’t he? But our bottle; is it glued fast? Keep it moving, my dear Frank. Good wine, and upon my soul I begin to feel it, and through me old Polonius—yes, this wine, I fear, is what excites me so against that detestable old dog without a tooth.”
Upon this, the cosmopolitan, cigar in mouth, slowly raised the bottle, and brought it slowly to the light, looking at it steadfastly, as one might at a thermometer in August, to see not how low it was, but how high. Then whiffing out a puff, set it down, and said: “Well, Charlie, if what wine you have drunk came out of this bottle, in that case I should say that if—supposing a case—that if one fellow had an object in getting another fellow fuddled, and this fellow to be fuddled was of your capacity, the operation would be comparatively inexpensive. What do you think, Charlie?”
“Why, I think I don’t much admire the supposition,” said Charlie, with a look of resentment; “it ain’t safe, depend upon it, Frank, to venture upon too jocose suppositions with one’s friends.”
“Why, bless you, Frank, my supposition wasn’t personal, but general. You mustn’t be so touchy.”
“If I am touchy it is the wine. Sometimes, when I freely drink, it has a touchy effect on me, I have observed.”