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Updated: June 24, 2025
It ruffled the muddy waters of the river, ran along the kennels of the Chinese quarter, drove the inhabitants of Paradise Street indoors and soused down over the Cantonment gardens, and battered on the travelling carriage of Craven Joicey, that came along the road, a waterproof over the pony's back and another covering the syce, and Joicey sat inside the small green box, holding the window-strings under his heavy arms.
It was a quarrel over cards, an' Greevy was drunk, an' followed Clint out into the prairie in the night and shot him like a coyote. Clint hadn't no chance, an' he jest lay there on the ground till morning, when Ricketts and Steve Joicey found him. An' Clint told Ricketts who it was." "Why didn't Ricketts tell it right out at once?" asked Sinnet.
He watched Joicey stare at him with blind rage; he watched him stagger and reach out groping hands for a chair, and he saw the huge defiance evaporate, leaving Joicey a trembling mass of nerves. "It's a lie," he said, mumbling the words as though they were dry bread. "It's a damned, infernal lie!"
He stopped and clutched Hartley's arm, and seemed as though he was staggering. "What has come over you, Joicey; are you ill?" "I'll sit down here for a moment," Joicey walked towards a low wall. "Sometimes I get these attacks. I'm better after they are over. Better, much better. Leave me here to go back by myself, Hartley.
For this universal reason, it might be concluded that Joicey might listen with attention to the story of Absalom, though his lowly station and his total lack of the most necessary form of balance, very naturally made him merely a black cypher of no special account in the eyes of a man of figures. Certainly Craven Joicey had not worn well.
Hartley was received with acclamations suited to his general reputation for popularity, and he stood talking for a little, glad to shake off his feeling of depression. When he saw Mr. Heath come in and go up the staircase to an upstairs room, he followed him with his eyes and decided to take the opportunity to speak to him. "What's the matter, Joicey?" he asked, speaking to the banker.
"No, he was alone, and he was carrying a parcel. Anyhow, that is all I can tell you about him that night." Joicey looked up as though he considered that he had said enough. "And from there you went to the opium den," said Coryndon relentlessly. The perspiration dripped from Joicey's hair, and he took up the threads of the story once more. "I went there," he said, biting the words savagely.
The man had been in a position of responsibility in the Mangadone Bank, and Joicey had given information against him the very day he absconded. Rydal was married, and the cruel part of the story lay in the fact that he had deserted his wife on her deathbed, fully aware that she was dying. "She died the evening he left, or was supposed to have left. At all events, the evening he disappeared."
"There is nothing the matter with you, is there, Joicey?" asked his host. "You don't seem to be up to the mark." "What mark?" said Joicey, with a laugh. "Up to your mark, Hartley, or my own mark, or someone else's mark? The average mark in Mangadone is low water.
The river or the ships or the back lanes of Mangadone might swallow a thousand Absaloms and make no difference to the Bank, and therefore none to Craven Joicey. Absalom, that shadow of the night, had gone to heaven or hell, and left no bills behind, and it is by bills that some men's memories are recorded.
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