"To think," said he, "how the natures of men differ. Some are like the
gods of old, and others again are like--well, like anything you choose
to call them. And yet," with philosophic speculation, "these two
widely diversified types are sometimes friends. To the surprise of
everyone they occasionally take up with one another. It's hard to say
why, but it is so."
"I've noticed it myself," said Ashton-Kirk.
Tobin nodded.
"Never," said he, "did I see it so exemplified as in the case of
Richard Morris and this felly who has just been killed. Never were two
men more unlike; but sorra such an intimacy did I ever see afore, as
there was between them. Morris when he had the drink in him was a
poet. His ideas soared to the starry skies; he flew about upon the
wings of the wind; faith I believe he thought the sun was not beyond
his reach. But Hume was a divil! God save us, that I should say the
like about any human creature; but he had the imp in him, for many's
the time I see it grinning and looking out at his two eyes."
"I've heard it said that he was an unpleasant sort of chap," agreed
the other.
"Unpleasant," said Tobin, "does not do credit to his capabilities,
though 'tis a good word enough. There was never a man came into the
Coffin Club, during the five years that I were there, that looked as
though the place fitted him, but Hume.
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