‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "Austin will stare," thought Jack, "when he comes here in the morning. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously.
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