He wondered why the air, the words (which were yet written with a certain knack), and the voice and accent of the singer, should all jar his spirit like a file on a man's teeth.

He sickened at the thought of his two comrades drinking away their reason upon stolen wine, quarrelling and hiccupping and waking up, while the doors of the prison yawned for them in the near future.

'Shall I have sold my honour for nothing ?' he thought; and a heat of rage and resolution glowed in his bosom--rage against his comrades--resolution to carry through this business if it might be carried; pluck profit out of shame, since the shame at least was now inevitable; and come home, home from South America--how did the song go?
--'with his pockets full of money': 'O honey, with our pockets full of money, We will trip, trip, trip, we will trip it on the quay:' so the words ran in his head; and the honey took on visible form, the quay rose before him and he knew it for the lamplit Embankment, and he saw the lights of Battersea bridge bestride the sullen river.

All through the remainder of his trick, he stood entranced, reviewing the past.

He had been always true to his love, but not always sedulous to recall her.