"Tell me about yourself," said the minister as they sat down at the table.
"Myself—did you say?" Hiram Blenkinsop asked as one of his feet crept under his chair to conceal its disreputable appearance, while his dog had partly hidden himself under a serving table where he seemed to be shivering with apprehension as he peered out, with raised hackles, at the stag's head over the mantel.
"Yes."
"I ain't got any Self, sir; it's all gone," said Blenkinsop, as he took a swallow of water.
"A man without any Self is a curious creature," the minister remarked.
"I'm as empty as a woodpecker's hole in the winter time. The bird has flown. I belong to this 'ere dog. He's a poor dog. I'm all he's got. If he had to pay a license on me I'd have to be killed. He's kind to me. He's the only friend I've got."
Hiram Blenkinsop riveted his attention upon an old warming-pan that hung by the fireplace. He hardly looked at the face of the minister.
"How did you come to lose your Self?" the latter asked.
"Married a bad woman and took to drink. A man's Self can stand cold an' hunger an' shipwreck an' loss o' friends an' money an' any quantity o' bad luck, take it as it comes, but a bad woman breaks the works in him an' stops his clock dead. Leastways, it done that to me!"
"She is like an arrow in his liver," the minister quoted. "Mr. Blenkinsop, where do you stay nights?"