He was becoming very tiresome, and Phileros cried out, "Let's think about
the living! He has what was coming to him, he lived respectably, and
respectably he died. What's he got to kick about'? He made his pile
from an as, and would pick a quadrans out of a dunghill with his teeth,
any old time. And he grew richer and richer, of course: just like a
honeycomb. I expect that he left all of a hundred thousand, by Hercules,
I do! All in cold cash, too; but I've eaten dog's tongue and must speak
the truth: he was foul-mouthed, had a ready tongue, he was a trouble
maker and no man. Now his brother was a good fellow, a friend to his
friend, free-handed, and he kept a liberal table. He picked a loser at
the start, but his first vintage set him upon his legs, for he sold his
wine at the figure he demanded, and, what made him hold his head higher
still, he came into a legacy from which he stole more than had been left
to him. Then that fool friend of yours, in a fit of anger at his
brother, willed his property away to some son-of-a-bitch or other, who
he was, I don't know, but when a man runs away from his own kin, he has
a long way to go! And what's more, he had some slaves who were
ear-specialists at the keyhole, and they did him a lot of harm, for a man
won't prosper when he believes, on the spot, every tale that he hears; a
man in business, especially. Still, he had a good time as long as he
lived: for happy's the fellow who gets the gift, not the one it was meant
for. He sure was Fortune's son! Lead turned to gold in his hands. It's
easy enough when everything squares up and runs on schedule. How old
would you think he was? Seventy and over, but he was as tough as horn,
carried his age well, and was as black as a crow. I knew the fellow for
years and years, and he was a lecher to the very last. I don't believe
that even the dog in his house escaped his attentions, by Hercules, I
don't; and what a boy-lover he was! Saw a virgin in every one he met!
Not that I blame him though, for it's all he could take with him."