"Hum!" said Barnabas, "and what were you by profession?"
"My calling, sir, was to work for, think for, and shoulder the blame for others—generally fools, sir. I was a confidential servant, a valet, sir. And I have worked, thought, and taken the blame for others so very successfully, that I must needs take to poaching that I may live."
"But—other men may require valets!"
"True, sir, and there are plenty of valets to be had—of a sort; but the most accomplished one in the world, if without a character, had better go and hang himself out of the way, and have done with it. And indeed, I have seriously contemplated so doing."
"You rate yourself very highly."
"And I go in rags! Though a professed thief may do well in the world, though the blackest rascal, the slyest rogue, may thrive and prosper, the greatest of valets being without a character, may go in rags and starve—and very probably will."
"Hum!" said Barnabas.
"Now, to starve, sir, is unpleasant; thus I, having a foolish, though very natural, dread of it, poach rabbits that I may exist. I possess also an inborn horror of rags and dirt, therefore I—exchanged this coat and breeches from a farmhouse, the folk being all away in the fields, and though they are awkward, badly-made garments, still beggars—and—"
"Thieves!" added Barnabas.
"And thieves, sir, cannot always be choosers, can they?"