While Amusing Ourselves With Reconnoitring This Group, We Noticed One
In Particular Who Appeared To Be The Oracle.
He was a weather-beaten
veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt, grown
gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walking
noblemen.
"There's something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that
physiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me," said Buckthorne. He
looked a little closer. "I cannot be mistaken," added he, "that must be
my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic hero of the
strolling company."
It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times went
hard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed. His coat was
somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut; single-breasted, and
scarcely capable of meeting in front of his body; which, from long
intimacy, had acquired the symmetry and robustness of a beer-barrel. He
wore a pair of dingy white stockinet pantaloons, which had much ado to
reach his waistcoat; a great quantity of dirty cravat; and a pair of
old russet-colored tragedy boots.
When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew him aside and made
Himself known to him. The tragic veteran could scarcely recognize him,
or believe that he was really his quondam associate "little gentleman
Jack." Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talk
over old times; and in the course of a little while we were put in
possession of his history in brief.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 229 of 433
Words from 60958 to 61213
of 115667
