“Prison is the best the world can do for men like me.”
But he was determined to give the world a better reason for putting him in prison than sleeping in a brick-field because it was warm. The world was cold. He would make it warm. The devil was in the world: he would burn him out, use his own element against him.
He chose the largest timber-yard he could find, and that night he stole a can of petrol, and when he had placed it in a heap of shavings went out into the street to find some matches. He met a seedy individual in a coat with a fur collar and a broad-brimmed hat, who looked like an actor, and he asked him if he could oblige him with a match.
“Lucifers,” said the seedy individual and gave him three.
Nicholas Bly returned to the timber-yard with the matches. He struck one. It went off like a rocket. The second exploded like a Chinese cracker, and he was just lighting the third when he heard a melancholy chuckle. He turned his head and found the seedy individual gazing at him with an expression of wistfulness.
“Like old times,” said the seedy individual.
Nicholas Bly lit the third match and it flooded the whole yard with Bengal light, and still he had not set fire to his petrol.
“Gimme another match,” said Nicholas Bly; “watch me set fire to the yard and go and tell.”
“I have no more,” replied the stranger. “Those were my last. I no longer make fire or instruments of fire. No one wants my tricks. I have lost everything and am doomed.”
“I have lost my wife, my children and my work.”