"
"Quite so," said I, "the wickedest old thief unhung."
Pasquale shook me by the arm.
"Are you a man or a phonograph? What on earth has happened to
you?"
I think I envied the laughter in his handsome, dark face, and the
careless grace of the fellow as he stood beneath the dripping
umbrella debonair as a young prince, in perfectly fitting blue
serge-he wore no overcoat; mine was buttoned up to the chinand
immaculate suede gloves.
"What is it?" he repeated, gaily.
"I didn't sleep last night," said I, "my breakfast disagreed with
me, and it's raining in the most unpleasant manner."
Even while I was speaking he left my side and darted across the
road. In some astonishment I watched him for a moment from the
kerb, and then made my way slowly to the other side. I found him
in conversation with an emaciated, bedraggled woman standing by
an enormous bundle, about three times her own cubic bulk, which
she had rested on the slimy pavement. One hand pressed a panting
bosom.
"You are going to carry that in your arms all the way to South
Kensington?" I heard him cry as I approached.
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