"A bit tired of it, I suppose. You see, they'd given him about nine distinct starts in life. They were always shipping him off to foreign parts, with his passage paid and a nice little bit of capital waiting for him on the other side. And, if you'll believe me, every blessed time he turned up again, if not by the next steamer, by the next after that."
"What became of the capital?"
"Oh, that he liquidated. Drank it—see? We've all got our own particular little foibles, and my friend's was drink."
"I don't wish to appear prejudiced, but I think I should be inclined myself to call it a sin."
"You may call it a sin. It was the only one he'd got, of any considerable size. I suppose you'd distinguish between a sin and its consequences?"
"Most certainly," replied the clergyman unguardedly.
"Well. Then—there were the women——"
"Steady, my friend, that makes two sins."
"No. You can't count it as two. You see, he never spoke to a girl till he was so blind drunk he couldn't tell whether she was pretty or ugly. Women were a consequence."
"That only made his sin the greater, sir."