Schomberg was the only one who resisted the infection.

Big, manly in a portly style, and profusely bearded, with a glass of beer in his thick paw, he would approach some table where the topic of the hour was being discussed, would listen for a moment, and then come out with his invariable declaration: "All this is very well, gentlemen; but he can't throw any of his coal-dust in my eyes.

There's nothing in it.

Why, there can't be anything in it.

A fellow like that for manager?
Phoo!" Was it the clairvoyance of imbecile hatred, or mere stupid tenacity of opinion, which ends sometimes by scoring against the world in a most astonishing manner?
Most of us can remember instances of triumphant folly; and that ass Schomberg triumphed.