"Saving your honour's presence," returned the mendicant, in a broad Irish accent, "he was a big blackguard, and so he was, not over-honest neither, and always drunk. T'other day, some foolish body who had more money nor wit, took a fancy to his ugly, unwholesome phiz, and gave him a purseful of gould—or mayhap he stole it—an' he never quits the grip of the brandy-bottle till he dies. They carried the body to the poor-house and that's all I knows of the chap. 'Tis a lucky thing, yer honor, that the scamp has neither wife nor child."
I thought so, too, as with a heavy sigh I took my way to the inn, murmuring to myself as I walked along:
"And such is the end of the wicked."
THE END.
LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.