The poor vender looked as if he had got into some silly, inexplicable mess from which he would be glad to free himself; but he did not seem to have sense enough to walk briskly away and leave us. Perhaps he did not care to admit defeat so easily.
“No, I suppose not,” replied the interrogated vainly.
“There you have it,” exclaimed Barfleur triumphantly. “You have a mother—you would not want her to know. You have a sister—you would not want her to know. And yet you solicit me here on the street to see things which I do not want to see or know. Think of your poor gray-headed mother,” he exclaimed grandiloquently, and with a mock air of shame and sorrow. “Once, no doubt, you prayed at her knee, an innocent boy yourself.”
The man looked at him in dull suspicion.
“No doubt if she saw you here to-night, selling your manhood for a small sum of money, pandering to the lowest and most vicious elements in life, she would weep bitter tears. And your sister—don’t you think now you had better give up this evil life? Don’t you think you had better accept any sort of position and earn an honest living rather than do what you are doing?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the man. “This living is as good as any other living. I’ve worked hard to get my knowledge.”
“Good God, do you call this knowledge?” inquired Barfleur solemnly.
“Yes, I do,” replied the man. “I’ve worked hard to get it.”
These places were crowded with a gay and festive throng