PETER CRAWLEY received a regular allowance during his chief's absence
and remained in constant communication with him, and was as heretofore
his money-bag, his tool, his invisible hand. But if anybody had had
a microscope and lots of time they might have discovered a gloomy hue
spreading itself over Crawley's soul. A pleasant illusion had been
rudely shaken.
All men have something they admire.
Crawley admired cunning. It is not a sublime quality, but Crawley
thought it was, and revered it with pious, affectionate awe. He had
always thought Mr. Meadows No. 1 in cunning, but now came a doleful
suspicion that he was No. 2.
Losing a portion of his veneration for the chief he had seen
outmaneuvered, he took the liberty of getting drunk contrary to his
severe command, and being drunk and maudlin he unbosomed himself on this
head to a low woman who was his confidante whenever drink loosened his
tongue.
“I'm out spirits, Sal. I'm tebbly out spirits. Where shall we all go to?
I dinn't think there was great a man on earth z Mizza Meadows. But the
worlz wide. Mizza Levi z greada man--a mudge greada man (hic). He was
down upon us like a amma (hic). His Jew's eye went through our lill
sgeme like a gimlet. 'Fools!' says he--that's me and Meadows, 'these
dodges were used up in our family before Lunnun was built. Fools!' Mizza
Levi despises me and Meadows; and I respect him accordingly. I'm tebbly
out spirits (hic).”