Sharp. (To barkeeper) Say, Thomas, I thought this was a gentleman’s house. What ’s that in the corner? Looks like a coffin might ’a’ spilt it on the way to the graveyard.
Bark. (In lower tone) He ’s one o’ these writin’ fellers in hard luck. I ’ve let him hang around here a good deal, for he ’s always quiet and gives me no show for kickin’ him out. But say the word and he goes.
Haines. Looks more like a sick man than a bum.
Sharp. Bah! He can drink till he wets his boots. I know that sort of a face.
Bark. Never drinks anything ’round here.
Sharp. Good reason. You don’t wear a charity medal.
Jug. Let him stay for luck.
Sharp. Whose luck? You’re doing all the winning to-night, Juggers. He ’s a Jonah for the rest of us. I want his eye off me, I say.
Black. O, let him alone. I ’d ask a burglar to have a seat in my house a night like this—’pon honor, I would. Play up. (They play on)
Poe. What a noble palace is here! How the gleaming vault reaches to heaven and mocks the stars! What resplendent lights! As though the master had taken burning planets for his candles! How far they throw their beams—around the world and into the nether sea!