"Give me that whisky," he muttered. "I want it now."
The 'Bishop' handed him his glass. Dick drained it, and laughed.
"Don't," said the 'Bishop' for the third time. Dick laughed again, and slapped him on the shoulder. Then the smile froze on his lips, and he spoke grimly.
"What does the apostle say--hey? We must die to live. A straight tip! Well--! I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly. I'm going to die to-night. Don't jump like that, you old ass; let me finish. I'm going to die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business all the same. Yes, my boy, and we'll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyes on the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfect gentlemen. Come on, let's drink to my resurrection. Here's to the man who was, and is, and is to be."
"You're a wonder," replied the 'Bishop' fervently. "I understand. You mean to be your own undertaker."
"I do, my lord. Now give me the baccy, some ink and paper, and an hour's peace."
But the hour passed and found Dick still composing. The 'Bishop' watched his friend with spaniel-like patience. At last the scribe flung down his pen, and read aloud, as follows--
"The Rectory, San Lorenzo,
"September 1,
"To the Rev. George Carteret.