Diary of a Drug Fiend

122 The Diary of a Drug Fiend through the jungle of life like a splash of sulphuric acid flung in a woman’s face. ’ There was no clock in the den, and of course we had left our watches at home. We got a little impatient. We couldn’t remember whether Feccles had or had not told us how long he was likely to be. The air of the room was stifling. The lowest vagabonds of Naples crowded the place. Some were jabbering like apes; some singing drunkenly to themselves ; some shame- lessly caressing ; some sunk in bestial stupor. Among the last was a burly brute who somehow fascinated our attention. We thought ourselves quite safe in speaking English ; and for all I know we were talking at the top of our voices. Lou maintained that this particular man was English himself. He was apparently asleep ;; but presently he lifted his head from the table, stretched his great arms, and called for a drink, in Italian. He drained his glass at a gulp, and then came suddenly over to our table and addressed us in English. We could tell at once from hjs accent that the man had originally been more or less of a gentleman, but his face and his tone told their own story. He must have been going downhill for many years—reached the bottom long ago, and found it the easiest place to live.He was aggressively friendly in a brutal way, and warned us that our disguises might be a source of danger; any one could see through them, and the fact of our having adopted them might arouse the quick suspicion of the Neapolitan mind. He called for drinks, and toasted King and Country with a sort of surly pride in his origin. He reminded me of Kipling’s broken-down Englishman. “Don’t you be afraid,” he said to Lou. “I won't let you come to any harm. A little peach like you? No blooming fear |”