But Jimmy was too far gone for my care, or anyone else’s. No doubt he had been consumptive for years, and a constitution kept up principally on “nipping” never thrives. There was a doctor living in the Inn at the time--a very good fellow. He visited him and gave him medicine--don’t believe Jimmy ever took it. His cough got gradually worse and his face fell in more than ever. But he was always full of jokes, rather grim jokes sometimes. I’ve seen girls shiver and scream with laughter at the same time. He went to a music hall every night, spending most of his time at the bar. He called the artistes by their Christian names--Queenie this, or Dan the other. The Queenies gave him their full confidence. Big, flashy girls, these music-hall girls, with free, not over-clean tongues and very good hearts. They would frighten you, but they don’t mean any harm. Jimmy used to write songs for them--which they very seldom bought. He did both words and music. His airs were most melodious and “catchy,” but his words were never quite vulgar enough. None of his songs “caught on.” I never knew a man with such a marvelous ear. If he went to a comic opera he would come straight home and play all the lyrics without a false note. He played Chopin by ear; he used to sit for hours extemporizing the most weird, fascinating, tantalizing music. He ought to have made his fortune. Instead of that, he went into consumption and died--for want of proper food. Now and again someone sent him a postal order. He never said who. He was a bit of a mystery. They were only small orders--under a pound, as if they had been scraped by some woman out of the housekeeping money, or her dress allowance. But I never knew. The last one he had was for fifteen shillings. He was on his last legs. The steward of the Inn, who was most forbearing--because it was Jimmy--had sent a deprecating note in to say that he must distrain if something, ever so little, was not paid on account of the year’s rent. Mrs. Morey had left him at last. Even his top hat was rough. Yet what do you think he did? Went out and bought a bath sponge for fifteen and six, promising to leave the sixpence next time he was passing. I met him on the stairs and he displayed the sponge proudly. “Only fifteen and six! Dirt cheap, isn’t it? It would be unpardonable extravagance to let a chance like that slip, wouldn’t it? And I wanted a bath sponge; the one I’ve got isn’t nearly big enough. Come up to my place. We’ll put it in water. Just you watch how it swells!” You may say bluntly that he was a fool. Of course he was. But it is the fools and the failures who win our hearts. We went up to his rooms. He put the sponge to swell and sat down to the piano and forgot all about it. I should like to hear Jimmy play music-hall songs again; nothing was ever so charming. He knew them all. He used to sing the refrains in a thin, shrill voice, accompanying in his own wonderful way. Everything he touched became classic.