He then mounted the jaded hack, which had long since regained its legs, and was quietly browsing the grass at the road-side, and, striking spurs into its side, rode off. ‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you. ‘There were the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme. "It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes'-bag. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise.
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