eleucus interrupted him, remarking:

"Well, for my part, _I_ don't take a bath every day. The cold water nips
you so that when you bathe every day your courage all oozes out of you.
But after I've swigged a toby of booze, I tell the cold to go to the
devil. But I couldn't take a bath to-day, anyhow, for I was to a funeral.
Chrysanthus, a fine man and _such_ a good fellow, kicked the bucket. I saw
him only the other day--in fact, I can hear him talking to me now. Dear
me! we go around like blown-up bladders. We're of less consequence than
even the flies, for flies have some spirit in them, while we are nothing
but mere bubbles. But as to Chrysanthus, what if he wasn't a total
abstainer? Anyhow, for five days before he died, he never threw a drink in
his face nor ate a crumb of bread. Well, well, he's joined the majority.
It was the doctors that really killed him, or perhaps just his bad luck;
for a doctor is nothing after all but a sort of consolation to your mind.
He was laid out in great style on his best bed, with his best bedclothes
on, and he had a splendid wake, though his wife wasn't sincere in her
mourning for him. But I say, what if he didn't treat her very well? A
woman, so far as she is a woman, _is_ a regular bird of prey. It isn't
worth while to do a favor for a woman, because it's just as if you'd
chucked it down a well. But love in time becomes a regular ball-and-chain
on a man."

He was getting to be rather boresome when Phileros chimed in:

"Oh, let's think of the living. Your friend has got whatever was his due.
He lived an honorable life and he died an honorable death. What has he to
complain of? From having nothing, he made a fortune, for he was always
ready to pull a piece of money out of a muck-heap with his teeth; and so
he grew as rich as a honey-comb. By Jove! I believe the fellow left a cool
hundred thousand, and he had it all in cash. I'm giving you this straight,
for I have a rough tongue. He was a man of unlimited cheek, a tonguey
fellow, and he always had a chip on his shoulder. His brother was a good
sort of chap, a friend to a friend, a man with an open hand, a generous
table. At the start he had a hard row to hoe, but his first vintage set
him on his legs again, for he sold his wine at his own price. But what
especially kept his head above water was this, that he got hold of a
legacy, and waltzed into a good deal more of it than had been really left
him. But this friend of yours, because