"I don't rightly know how old I may be," he began at length, "but
it's most like about fifty; we'll say fifty. For fifty years I've
lived in this world, and in all that time I can't remember not one
single 'appy day, not one. I never knowed neither father nor mother;
I never knowed not a soul as belonged to me. Friends I '_ave_ had;
four of 'em; and their names was Brandy, Whisky, Rum, an' Gin. But
they've cost me a good deal, an' somehow they ain't quite what they
used to be. They used to make me merry for a while, now and then;
but they've taken now to burnin' up my inside, an' filling my 'ead
with devils; an' I'm gettin' afeard of 'em, an' they'll 'ave to see
me through to the end.
"Fifty year," he resumed, after another interval of brooding, "an'
not one 'appy day. I was a-thinkin' of it over to myself, and, says
I, 'What's the reason on it?' The reason is, 'cos I ain't never 'ad
money. Money means 'appiness, an' them as never 'as money, 'll never
be 'appy, live as long as they may. Well, I went on a-sayin' to
myself, 'Ain't I to 'ave not _one_ 'appy day in all my life?' An' it
come to me all at once, with a flash like, that money was to be 'ad
for the trouble o' takin' it--money an' 'appiness.
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