“My God!” said he, beating his forehead with a clenched fist. “My God!”
And so fell the second thunderbolt.
Towards midnight there came a heavy knocking at his door. Startled by the unusual sound he cried:
“What’s that? Who’s there?”
The door opened and Eustace Huckaby lurched solemnly into the room. His ruffled hair stood up on end like a cockatoo’s crest, and his watery eyes glistened. He pulled his straggling beard.
“Sorry ole’ man to hear you’re seedy. Came to know—how—getting on.”
Quixtus rose, a new sternness on his face, and confronted the intruder.
“Huckaby, you’re drunk.”
Huckaby laughed and waved a protesting hand, thereby nearly losing his balance.
“No,” said he. “Rid’klous. I’m not drunk. Other fellows are—drunk ash owls—tha’s why—couldn’t come see you. They’re not qui’ sort of men been acushtomed to assochate with—I’m—University man—like you, Quishtus—sometime Fellow Corpus Christi College, Cambridge—I first gave motto for club—didn’t I? Procul, O procul este profani—tha’s Latin. Other two lobsters don’t know word of Latin—ignorant as lobsters—lobsters—tha’s wha’ I call ’em.” He lurched heavily into a chair. “Awful thirsty. Got a drink, old f’la?”