In fact, there's scarcely anything he does not put his finger into, and everything he puts his finger into he spoils.
If, in a weak moment of benevolence, you take him back into your confidence and friendship, no one will be more humble and forgiving and affable; but he will just use your new favour as a weapon for paying back old grudges, and sorely will you repent your folly.
In fact, there is only one place for Jerry--that place is Coventry.
That city is famous for one sneak already.

Let Jerry keep him company.
There he can tell tales, and peep and listen and wriggle to his heart's content.

He'll please himself, and do no one any harm.
A sneak has not always the plea of self-interest for his meanness.
Often enough his tale-bearing or his mischief-making can not only do his victims incalculable harm, but cannot do him any possible good.
What good did the snake in the fable expect who, having been rescued, and warmed and restored to life by the merciful woodcutter, turned on his deliverer and stung him?
No wonder the good fellow knocked him on the head! I knew another sneak once who seemed to make a regular profession of this amiable propensity.

He seemed to consider his path in life was to detect and inform on whatever, to his small mind, seemed a culpable offence.

In the middle of school, all of a sudden his raspy voice would lift itself up in ejaculations like these, addressed to the master,-- "Please, sir," (he always prefaced his remarks with "Please, sir"), "Please, sir, Tom Cobb's eating an apple!" "Please, sir, Jenkins has made a blot!" "Please, sir, Allen junior is cutting his name on the desk!" Perhaps the indignant Allen junior would here take occasion to acknowledge his sense of this attention by a private kick under the desk.