A fat, hearty, convivial fellow does not perceive what is termed the half-cut near so soon as your lank, sensitive, thorough-paced goer; and Norcot was not completely undeceived as to his own declining influence until, one evening, having lost much more money than he had to pay, he began to consider how to make up the deficiency. He had very little cash left any where, and was not versed in the borrowing system: so he thought he would wait a few days to see what Providence would be pleased to do for him; and as he had never thought it worth his while to rely upon her before, he did not know exactly in what way to court her assistance. Irish gentlemen so circumstanced are very apt to suppose that they may find Providence, or in other words good luck, at the bottom of two or three bottles of wine, and accordingly never omit the application thereunto. Norcot pursued the usual course, and certainly made away with that number at least next night, with the duke. But, alas! this kind of exorcism was unsuccessful in his instance, and he was necessitated to return home, at three o’clock in the morning, sobered by the very lassitude of excess, and maddened by reflection. On arriving, he threw himself into his arm-chair, his mind became confused, his reason wandered: he thought of resources—there were none!—but the extent of his poverty and debts being as yet not publicly known, he thought of borrowing: the plan, however, seemed a doubtful one; and besides, he was deterred from trying it by his pride. He next thought of prison; this inflamed his brain still farther, and drove him upon the fearful alternative of suicide! Here a door of retreat seemed open, although whither it led he knew not: but he had neither heart to bear up against misfortune, nor religion to assuage it: he had no steady friend to advise with, and no liberal one to relieve him.
He sank for a moment into an enviable state of insensibility. His servant Thomas, a broad, faithful Irishman, but who never had known the meaning of any kind of feelings (except corporeal ones), stood by surprised at the change in his master’s manner. “Thomas!” exclaimed the desponding Norcot, “Thomas, are my pistols charged?”
“Right well, plase your honour,” replied Thomas.
“The flints, Thomas?”
“I’m sure they’d strike fire enough to burn a barrel of gunpowder, if your honour wanted to blow it up!”
“Bring them hither,” said Norcot.
Thomas did not approve of this order, and answered, “Sure your honour can’t want them till day-light, any how!” But, upon Norcot’s authoritatively waving his hand, he brought the pistols, wondering what his master wanted with them.
“Thomas,” said the desperate man, “you were always faithful!”
“And why should not I?” said Thomas.
“Well, then, Thomas, I can live no longer!”