STARLING was a pale, greasy man. He was a devil of a gyp. He went into
GEORGE's bed-room and shook his master by the shoulder. GEORGE woke
up.
"Bring me the College pump," he said. "I must have it. No, stay," he
continued, as STARLING prepared to execute his orders, "a hair of the
dog--bring it, quick, quick!"
STARLING gave him three. He always carried them about with him in case
of accidents. GEORGE devoured them eagerly, recklessly. Then with a
deep sigh of relief, he went stark staring mad, and bit STARLING in
the fleshy part of the thigh, after which he fell fast asleep again.
On awaking, he took his name off the College books, gave STARLING a
cheque for £5000, broke off his engagement, but forgot to post the
letter, and consulted a Doctor.
"What you want," said the Doctor, "is to be shut up for a year in the
tap-room of a public-house. No water, only spirits. That must cure
you."
So GEORGE ordered STARLING to hire a public-house in a populous
district. When this was done, he went and lived there. But you
scarcely need to be told that STARLING had not carried out his orders.
How could he be expected to do that? Only fifty-six pages of my book
had been written, and even publishers--the most abandoned people on
the face of the earth--know that that amount won't make a Christmas
Annual. So STARLING hired a Temperance Hotel. As I have said, he was
a devil of a gyp.