“Couldn’t get a character from him—why not?”
“Because I ran away from school.”
“Oh, oh! Did they ill-treat you, then, or starve you? Come; better tell the truth.”
“No—it wasn’t that. It was because—” Jeffreys gave one longing look at the shelves of beloved books, and an appealing glance at his questioner—“It was because I—nearly killed a boy.”
The man whistled and looked askance at his visitor.
“By accident?”
“Partly. Partly not. But I assure you—”
“That will do,” said the man; “that’s quite enough. Be off!”
Jeffreys departed without another word. Like Tantalus, the tempting fruit had been within reach, and his evil destiny had come in to dash it from his lips. Was it wonderful if he felt disposed to give it up and in sheer desperation go back to Bolsover?
The whole of the remainder of that day was spent in spiritless wandering about the streets. Once he made another attempt to obtain work, this time at a merchant’s office. But again the inconvenient question of character was raised, and he was compelled to denounce himself. This time his confession was even more unfeelingly received than at the bookseller’s.