Greenacre's came first. He was the victim, he declared, of such ill
luck as rarely befell a man. Arriving at Euston by the Irish mail,
and hastening to get a cab, whom should he encounter on the very
platform but a base-minded ruffian who nursed a spite against him; a
low fellow who had taken advantage of his good nature, and who--in
short, a man from whom it was impossible to escape, for several good
reasons, until they had spent some hours together. He got off a
telegram to Lord Polperro, and could do no more till nearly eleven
o'clock at night. Arriving headlong at Lowndes Mansions, he learnt
with disgust what had gone on there in his absence. And now, what
defence had Gammon to offer? What was his game?
"I guess pretty well what yours is, my boy," answered the listener.
"And I'm not sorry I've spoilt it."
Thereupon he related the singular train of events between breakfast
time this (or rather yesterday) morning and the ringing out of the
old year. When it came to a description of Lord Polperro's accident
Greenacre lost all control of himself.
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