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200 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP
familiarity more specially disgusting than even his hostility. The
wonder was that battle had not taken place between Philip and the
gaol clergyman, who, I suppose, was accustomed to be disliked, and
laughed with cynical good-humour at the other's disgust.
Hunt was a visitor of many tavern-parlours; and one day,
strolling out of the " Admiral Byng," he saw his friend Dr. Firmin's
well-known equipage stopping at a door in Thornhaugh Street, out
of which the Doctor presently came ; " Brandon " was on the door.
Brandon, Brandon ? Hunt remembered a dark transaction of more
than twenty years ago—of a woman deceived by this Firmin, who
then chose to go by the name of Brandon. "He lives with her
still, the old hypocrite, or he has gone back to her," thought the
parson. Oh, you old sinner ! And the next time he called in Old
Parr Street on his dear old college friend, Mr. Hunt was specially
jocular, and frightfully unpleasant and familiar.
"Saw your trap Tottenham Court Road way," says the slang
parson, nodding to the physician.
" Have some patients there. People are ill in Tottenham Court
Road," remarks the Doctor.
" ' Pallida mors æquo pede '—hey, Doctor ? What used Flaccus
to say, when we were undergrade ?"
"' Æquo pede,' " sighs the Doctor, casting up his fine eyes to
the ceiling.
" Sly old fox ! Not a word will he say about her !" thinks the
clergyman. " Yes, yes, I remember. And, by Jove ! Gann was
the name."
Gann was also the name of that queer old man who frequented
the "Admiral Byng," where the ale was so good—the old boy
whom they called the Captain. Yes ; it was clear now. That ugly
business was patched up. The astute Hunt saw it all. The Doctor
still kept up a connection with the—the party. And that is her
old father, sure euough. " The old fox, the old fox ! I've earthed
him, have I ? This is a good game. I wanted a little something
to do, and this will excite me," thinks the clergyman.
I am describing what I never could have seen or heard, and
can guarantee only verisimilitude, not truth, in my report of the
private conversation of these worthies. The end of scores and
scores of Hunt's conversations with his friend was the same—an
application for money. If it rained when Hunt parted from his
college chum, it was, " I say, Doctor, I shall spoil my new hat,
and I'm blest if I have any money to take a cab. Thank you, old
boy. Au revoir." If the day was tine, it was, " My old blacks
show the white seams so, that you must out of your charity rig
me out with a new pair. Not your tailor. He is too expensive.