The descent of George Aspel became very rapid in course of time. As he lost self-respect he became reckless and, as a natural consequence, more dissipated. Remonstrances from his friend Mr Blurt, which were repelled at first with haughty disdain, came to be received with sullen indifference. He had nothing to say for himself in reply, because, in point of fact, there was nothing in his case to justify his taking so gloomy and despairing a view of life. Many men, he knew, were at his age out of employment, and many more had been crossed in love. He was too proud to condescend to false reasoning with his lips, though he encouraged it in his heart. He knew quite well that drink and bad companionship were ruining him, and off-hand, open-hearted fellow though he was said to be, he was mean enough, as we have already said, to growlingly charge his condition and his sins on Fate.

 

At last he resolved to give up the business that was so distasteful to him. Unable to give a satisfactory reason for so doing, or to say what he meant to attempt next, and unwilling or ashamed to incur the remonstrances and rebut the arguments of his patron, the bold descendant of the sea-kings adopted that cowardly method of departure called taking French leave. Like some little schoolboy, he ran away! In other words, he disappeared, and left no trace behind him.

 

Deep was Mr Enoch Blurt’s regret, for he loved the youth sincerely, and made many fruitless efforts to find him—for lost in London means lost indeed! He even employed a detective, but the grave man in grey—who looked like no class of man in particular, and seemed to have no particular business in hand, and who talked with Mr Blurt, at their first meeting, in a quiet, sensible, easy way, as though he had been one of his oldest friends—could find no clue to him, for the good reason that Mr Bones had taken special care to entice Aspel into a distant locality, under pretence of putting him in the way of finding semi-nautical employment about the docks. Moreover, he managed to make Aspel drunk, and arranged with boon companions to strip him, while in that condition, of his garments, and re-clothe him in the seedy garb peculiar to those gentlemen who live by their wits.

 

“Very strange,” muttered Aspel, on recovering sufficiently to be led by his friend towards Archangel Court,—“very strange that I did not feel the scoundrels robbing me. I must have slept very soundly.”

 

“Yes, you slep’ wery sound, and they’re a bad lot, and uncommon sharp in that neighbourhood. It’s quite celebrated. I tried to get you away, but you was as obstinate as a mule, an’ kep’ on singing about some sort o’ coves o’ the old times that must have bin bigger blackguards than we ’ave about us now-a-days, though the song calls ’em glorious.”

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