It was dark as he rode out by the low road to Chapelizod--crest-fallen, beaten--scowling in the darkness through his horse's ears along the straight black line of road, and wishing, as he passed the famous Dog-house, that he might be stopped and plundered, and thus furnished with a decent excuse for his penniless condition, and a plea in which all the world would sympathise for a short indulgence--and, faith! he did not much care if they sent a bullet through his harassed brain.

But the highwaymen, like the bankers, seemed to know, by instinct, that he had not a guinea, and declined to give him even the miserable help he coveted.
When he got home he sent down for Cluffe to the Phoenix, and got him to take Nutter, who was there also, aside, and ask him for a little time, or to take part of the rent.

Though the latter would not have helped him much; for he could not make out ten pounds just then, were it to save his life.

But Nutter only said-- 'The rent's not mine; I can't give it or lose it; and Sturk's not safe.
Will _you_ lend it?
_I_ can't.' This brought Cluffe to reason.

He had opened the business, like a jolly companion, in a generous, full-blooded way.
'Well, by Jove, Nutter, I can't blame you; for you see, between ourselves, I'm afraid 'tis as you say.