"
To each man is appointed his particular dread,--the terror that, if he does not
fight against it, must cow him even to the loss of his manhood. Dick"s
experience of the sordid misery of want had entered into the deeps of him, and,
lest he might find virtue too easy, that memory stood behind him, tempting to
shame, when dealers came to buy his wares. As the Nilghai quaked against his
will at the still green water of a lake or a mill-dam, as Torpenhow flinched
before any white arm that could cut or stab and loathed himself for flinching,
Dick feared the poverty he had once tasted half in jest. His burden was heavier
than the burdens of his companions.
Maisie watched the face working in the moonlight.
"You've plenty of pennies now," she said soothingly.
"I shall never have enough," he began, with vicious emphasis. Then, laughing,
"I shall always be three-pence short in my accounts."
"Why threepence?"
"I carried a man's bag once from Liverpool Street Station to Blackfriar"s
Bridge. It was a sixpenny job,--you needn't laugh; indeed it was,--and I wanted
the money desperately. He only gave me threepence; and he hadn't even the
decency to pay in silver. Whatever money I make, I shall never get that odd
threepence out of the world.
Pages:
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968