“No.”
“Well, I suppose a gent never gets a passion; I’d a perfect passion for fishin’. Never missed Sunday, wet or fine. That’s why I learned this carvin’—must ’ave an ’obby to go on with. Are you goin’ to write your ’istory? Am I wrong, or did you shake your ’ead?”
“I did. My hobby is watching the show go by.”
“That might ’ave suited me at one time—always liked to see the river flowin’ down. I’m a bit of a philosopher myself. You ain’t, I should say.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I’ve a fancy you want life to come to heel too much—misfortune of bein’ a gent, perhaps. Am I right?”
Late—299 closed the book and rose. “Pride!” he said.
“Ah!” said the blind man, groping with his eyes, “that’s meat and drink to you. Thought as much. Come again, if I don’t worry you.”
“And take you fishing?”
“Reelly? You will? Shake ’ands.”