§ 10
How various is the quality of humanity!
About Bealby there was ever an imaginative touch; he was capable of romance, of gallantries, of devotion. William was of a grosser clay, slave of his appetites, a materialist. Such men as William drive one to believe in born inferiors, in the existence of a lower sort, in the natural inequality of men.
While Bealby was busy at his little gentle task of reparation, a task foolish perhaps and not too ably conceived, but at any rate morally gracious, William had no thought in the world but the satisfaction of those appetites that the consensus of all mankind has definitely relegated to the lower category. And which Heaven has relegated to the lower regions of our frame. He came now slinking towards the vestiges of the caravanners’ picnic, and no one skilled in the interpretation of the human physiognomy could have failed to read the significance of the tongue tip that drifted over his thin oblique lips. He came so softly towards the encampment that Bealby did not note him. Partly William thought of remnants of food, but chiefly he was intent to drain the bottles. Bealby had stuck them all neatly in a row a little way up the hill. There was a cider bottle with some heel-taps of cider, William drank that; then there was nearly half a bottle of hock and William drank that, then there were the drainings of the Burgundy and Apollinaris. It was all drink to William.
And after he had drained each bottle William winked at the watching angels and licked his lips, and patted the lower centres of his being with a shameless base approval. Then fired by alcohol, robbed of his last vestiges of self-control, his thoughts turned to the delicious chocolates that were stored in a daintily beribboned box in the little drawers beneath the sleeping bunk of Miss Philips. There was a new brightness in his eye, a spot of pink in either cheek. With an expression of the lowest cunning he reconnoitred Bealby.
Bealby was busy about something at the back end of the caravan, tugging at something.
With swift stealthy movements of an entirely graceless sort, William got up into the front of the caravan.
Just for a moment he hesitated before going in. He craned his neck to look round the side at the unconscious Bealby, wrinkled the vast nose into an unpleasant grimace and then—a crouching figure of appetite—he crept inside.
Here they were! He laid his hand in the drawer, halted listening....
What was that?...
Suddenly the caravan swayed. He stumbled, and fear crept into his craven soul. The caravan lurched. It was moving.... Its hind wheels came to the ground with a crash....
He took a step doorward and was pitched sideways and thrown upon his knees.... Then he was hurled against the dresser and hit by a falling plate. A cup fell and smashed and the caravan seemed to leap and bound....
Through the little window he had a glimpse of yew bushes hurrying upward. The caravan was going down hill....
“Lummy!” said William, clutching at the bunks to hold himself upright....
“Ca-arnt be that drink!” said William, aspread and aghast....
He attempted the door.
“Crikey! Here! Hold in! My shin!” ... “’Tis thut Brasted Vool of a Boy!”
“....” said William. “....——....
