ow--cursed bad company, Puddock. Where's
Cluffe?'

'Gone home, I believe.'

'So much the better. You know Cluffe better than I, and there's a secret
about him I never could find out. _You_ have, maybe?'

'What's that?' lisped Puddock.

'What the deuce Cluffe's good for.'

'Oh! tut! We all know Cluffe's a very good fellow.'

Devereux looked from under his finely pencilled brows with a sad sort of
smile at good little Puddock.

'Puddock,' says he, 'I'd like to have you write my epitaph.

Puddock looked at him with his round eyes a little puzzled, and then he
said--

'You think, maybe, I've a turn for making verses; and you think also I
like you, and there you're quite right.'

Devereux laughed, but kindly, and shook the fat little hand he
proffered.

'I wish I were like you, Puddock. We've the knowledge of good and evil
between us. The knowledge of good is all yours: you see nothing but the
good that men have; you see it--and, I dare say, truly--where I can't.
The darker knowledge is mine.'

Puddock, who thought he thoroughly understood _King John, Shylock_, and
_Richard III._, was a good deal taken aback by Devereux's estimate of
his penetration.

'Well, I don't think you know me, Devereux,' resumed he with a
thoughtful lisp. 'I'm much mistaken, or I could sound the depths of a
villain's soul as well as most men.'

'And if you did you'd find it full of noble qualities,' said Dick
Devereux. 'What book is that?'

'The tragical history of Doctor Faustus,' answered Puddock. 'I left it
here more than a week ago. Have you read it?'

'Faith, Puddock, I forgot it! Let's see what 'tis like,' said Devereux.
'Hey day!' And he read--

'Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare
Into that vast perpetual torture-house;
There are the furies tossing damned souls
On burning forks; their bodies boil in lead;
There are live quarters broiling on the coals
That ne'er can die; this ever-burning chair
Is for o'er-tortured souls to rest them in;
These that are fed with sops of flaming fire
Were gluttons, and loved only delicates,
And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates.

'Tailors! by Jupiter! Serve'em right, the rogues. Tailors lining upon
ragou royal, Spanish olea, Puddock--fat livers, and green morels in the
Phoenix, the scoundrels, and laughing to see poor gentlemen of the
Royal Irish Artillery starving at their gates--hang 'em.'

'Well! well! Listen to the _Good Angel_,' said Pu