'
'You abominable young impostor,' I exclaimed. 'Finish the poem for
yourself!' And so he did, and entirely out of all metre, and bragged
about the work at the Club as his own performance.
Poor Waggle fully believed in his friend's genius, until one day last
week he came with a grin on his countenance to the Club, and said, 'Oh,
Snob, I've made SUCH a discovery! Going down to the skating to-day, whom
should I see but Wiggle walking with that splendid woman--that lady of
illustrious family and immense fortune, Mary, you know, whom he wrote
the beautiful verses about. She's five-and-forty. She's red hair. She's
a nose like a pump-handle. Her father made his fortune by keeping a
ham-and-beef shop, and Wiggle's going to marry her next week.'
'So much the better, Waggle, my young friend,' I exclaimed. 'Better
for the sake of womankind that this dangerous dog should leave off
lady-killing--this Blue-Beard give up practice. Or, better rather
for his own sake. For as there is not a word of truth in any of those
prodigious love-stories which you used to swallow, nobody has been
hurt except Wiggle himself, whose affections will now centre in the
ham-and-beef shop. There ARE people, Mr. Waggle, who do these things
in earnest, and hold a good rank in the world too. But these are not
subjects for ridicule, and though certainly Snobs, are scoundrels
likewise.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230