Of my Incarceration in the Jug
rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through and steal. The advice, maybe, comes late, seeing that your hours are numbered; but, as I have not had the honour of your acquaintance previously, I have lacked the opportunity to put you upon the narrow way that leadeth to life.”
“O damn preaching,” says I; “let us drink.”
The Ordinary smiled. “What I like about you, Ryder,” he says, “is your generous hand. You must have heaped up riches. ’Twas a pretty business, yours; and all to fall into the hands of a wench.”
But I would not take that from him, as I let him know. “Leave talking of Polly,” I cried angrily, “or irons or no irons, I’ll knap your ugly nose off”
“You are too hot, Ryder,” says he, edging away drunkenly; “I meant no offence. Faith, I mean nothing but well by you, in proof whereof I will drink to a neat turn-off to-morrow.” He drank at his words, and though I was angry I could not forbear laughing.
“O well,” I says, “I’ll join you there.”
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