Novelists are ever introducing upon their pages, as the villain of
the story, the smooth, oily rogue: as if they considered such ones
were alone capable of cunning roguery and subtle diabolism. But
there is many a mean soul disguised by a bluff, hearty exterior,
and the mask is much the more difficult to penetrate. It is said
of such an one--"He says hard things, but you always see the
worst of him, for he puts his worst side out." Shakespeare's
rogue, honest Jack Falstaff, was brusk and blunt, but he carried a
rascal's heart, and there are many now living who are just as
great blusterers, and are equally as cowardly and as base.

"Ha, ha! Ashton! this is too good to last! You know you have
assumed the role of the Prodigal Son before, but you have come
back to the riotous living again." Come, old fellow, take a
little; it will do you good. I believe you used to be an orthodox
Methodist, and, therefore, must be considerably versed in
Scripture, and you know that Paul advised Timothy to "take a
little wine for his stomach's sake, and for his oft infirmities."

When Ginsling had finished speaking, a look of unutterable scorn
passed over the face of Ashton, and he glared at the former with
fierce contempt, and once or twice he seemed as if about to reply,
but, though his quivering lips and the contortions of his face
showed violent emotion, he for a time uttered no response, as if
he could not find words adequate to express his burning thoughts,
till suddenly starting he said--"Pshaw! you miserable rascal, it
was an evil day for me when I first met you. Have you not wrought
ruin enough? Why do you come again to tempt me? Leave me or I will
not be responsible for the consequences." And, turning upon his
heel, he abruptly left him.