“Excuse me,” he said, “but there is a slight preliminary. I have made it a rule in dealing with religious and philanthropic societies always to extort a small sum in advance as a pledge of good faith. I am not in any want of money, nor do I doubt your ability and willingness to pay it. But I have made it a rule, and I invariably insist on compliance with it. If you will pay me half a sovereign—not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith—I will accept that amount.”
“Certainly, my dear sir. Mr. Bottle, pray let the gentleman have ten shillings, or a sovereign if he wants it.”
“I said half a sovereign,” said the lecturer, impressively.
That sum was handed to him by Mr. Bottle, who took his receipt, and Mr. Browley appeared once more in the outer air.
For a remarkable man with a great interest in the temperance cause, it must be admitted that his first two visits were somewhat singular in their nature. His first visit was to a pawnbroker’s, where he redeemed a dress suit pledged for three shillings, and his next visit was to a public-house, where he called for a pint of bitter and Burton—in a pewter.
“That’s both meat and drink,” he murmured, as he licked his lips. It was evident that the remarkable man spoke from conviction, for he hardly passed a tavern on his way from town to the remoter slums of Islington without eating and drinking after the same fashion—with this slight variation, that at the last half-dozen houses of call he substituted for the beer that decoction which Mr. Eccles alludes to as “cool, refreshing gin.”
He reeled at last into his own street, and staggered into the one room occupied by himself and his wife. He threw the bundle of dress clothes on the bed.
“Maggie! get me that ‘Demon Drink.’ I’m going to deliver the ‘Demon’ to-morrow. D’ye hear?”
“But, John, remember what the doctor said at the hospital. All excitement is so bad for you.”
“Damn the doctors. Produce the ‘Demon,’ d’ye hear?”