“In London? Yes,” said Reginald.
“This ’ere chap, Bright, was a light porter to a cove as kep’ a grocer’s shop there, and one night when he was asleep in the arm-cheer he puts a sack on ’is ’ead and chokes ’im. The old cove he struggles a bit, but—”
“Shut up!” said Reginald angrily. “I’ve told you quite often enough. Give me that book.”
At the words and the tones in which they were uttered Love suddenly turned into a small fiend. He struggled, he kicked, he cursed, he howled to keep his treasure. Reginald was inexorable, and of course it was only a matter of time until the book was in his hands. A glance at its contents satisfied him.
“Look here,” said he, holding the book behind his back and parrying all the boy’s frantic efforts to recover it, “don’t make a fool of yourself, youngster.”
“Give it to me! Give me my book, you—”
And the boy broke into a volley of oaths and flung himself once more tooth-and-nail on Reginald. Already Reginald saw he had made a mistake. He had done about the most unwise thing he possibly could have done. But it was too late to undo it. The only thing, apparently, was to go through with it now. So he flung the book into the fire, and, catching the boy by the arm, told him if he did not stop swearing and struggling at once he would make him.
The boy did not stop, and Reginald did make him.
It was a poor sort of victory, and no one knew it better than Reginald. If the boy was awed into silence, he was no nearer listening to reason—nay, further than ever. He slunk sulkily into a corner, glowering at his oppressor and deaf to every word he uttered. In vain Reginald expostulated, coaxed, reasoned, even apologised. The boy met it all with a sullen scowl. Reginald offered to pay him for the book, to buy him another, to read aloud to him, to give him an extra hour a day—it was all no use; the injury was too deep to wash out so easily; and finally he had to give it up and trust that time might do what arguments and threats had failed to effect.
But in this he was disappointed; for next morning when nine o’clock arrived, no Love was there, nor as the day wore on did he put in an appearance. When at last evening came, and still no signs of him, Reginald began to discover that the sole result of his well-meant interference had been to drive his only companion from him, and doom himself henceforth to the miseries of solitary confinement.