The largest of these must have been instantly recognized by any expert as rejected manuscript. Some irate publisher, at the end, probably, of a morning's fruitless search for something worth publishing, had scrawled in blue pencil upon the outside of the parcel: "Why the deuce don't you get your stuff typewritten?" In addition to this derisive question, the title of the bulky package was clearly legible, printed in large ink letters: "THE TRUMPET CALL TO REVOLUTION."
Seating himself by the table, the owner of the despised treasure drew from his pocket a very small bottle, labeled "Laudanum." He rose, searched the mattress of his bed, and extracted from various holes three other small bottles of the same size. Then he produced a paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and spread it upon the table. A letter, upon good, thick writing-paper, stamped with an address—Normansgrave, Cleveshire.
The writing upon the bluish-tinted sheet was fine and clear:
"DEAR FELIX,—Bearing in mind the circumstances which led to your disgrace, you cannot, I think, upon your first emergence from prison, reasonably expect me to intrust you with money. I have placed a certain sum in the hands of the police-court missionary, with instructions to him to pay you so much a week from it, so as to give you time to seek honest employment. I have made it clear to him that, should you hold any kind of communication with the murderous gang of anarchists who have brought you to this pass, you are to forfeit all further right to your allowance.
"Once again let me entreat you to make a fresh start, and endeavor to atone, by a future of steady work, for the aberrations of your early manhood. Should you show any signs of a real effort to improve, I shall not refuse to receive you here once more as my father's son. But to do so now, before you have proved yourself, would be an injustice both to myself and you.—I remain, your brother, DENZIL VANSTON."
After carefully reading through this letter Felix Vanston took up a sheet of paper from among two or three lying near, and wrote as follows:
"DEAR PHARISEE,—You have sent the publican to his just doom. He goes to it with the publican's old prayer upon his lips. 'God be merciful'—for certainly man is not. You may continue to fast twice in the week and give tithes of all you possess to other objects than your disreputable brother—FELIX."
This letter he folded, addressed, and arranged with the other in the center of the table, marked thus:
"TO BE READ BY THE CORONER AT
THE INQUEST ON MY BODY.
(N.B.—No room for suspicion of insanity)."
This done, he took his bundle of MS. in his arms and went to the empty grate. Tearing off a few leaves, he pushed them through the bars, produced a box still containing two or three matches, and set them alight. He sat by on the grimy floor tearing off more and feeding the flames with it until the whole book was consumed.