He had never been a man with a wide circle of friends, and the few acquaintances he met mostly took their pleasures by leaning across the bar or hiving round the cheese at a Bodega—a practice which he showed no disposition to emulate. In consequence he was thrown entirely on his own resources, and, as a result, there set in a kind of incipient melancholy. He began to speculate how long four hundred pounds would last, at an expenditure of thirty shillings a week.
“And three years of this sort of thing is about as much as we could stand, old boy,” he said, when he looked at the result of the calculation.
So he continued to drift in a melancholy isolation, until one day, upon a bench in Roundhay Park, he espied a familiar figure.
It was a man—or, more truthfully, what was left of a man—poor, shivering, down-and-out. But Eliphalet needed no second glance to assure him that here was Sefton Bulmore—old Sefton, who had done him a good turn—old Sefton, squeezed from the boards to make room for younger blood and fresher funniosities.
“Sefton!” said Eliphalet, stretching out his hand.
A pair of watery eyes were raised jerkily and scanned his features. Then the old fellow came to his feet with astonishing vigour. Lifting his right hand high in the air, he brought it down whack into the extended palm, covering it instantly with an embracing grasp from his left. It was an old stage formula, executed with technical perfection. (Try it yourself; you will find it is none too easy to do.)
“The Old Card. By God, it’s the Old Card!”
There was a world of enthusiasm in the tone—then suddenly his manner changed to an extremity of confidence.
“This is uncommonly fortunate. To tell you the truth, old son, I’ve been a bit unlucky lately. But the Profession sticks together, eh? For old sake’s sake—and if—if you can’t lend me ten bob, five ’ud do!”
“Sit down—let’s talk,” said Eliphalet.