“Regular one of Sniff’s little games!” said another standing near; “he always lets his little fish go when he’s landed his big ones! To my mind it’s a risky business. Never mind.”
“You can go when you like now,” said the policeman to Reginald; “and whenever we come across a shilling for a drink we’ll drink your health, my lad.”
Reginald saw the hint, and handed the policeman one of his last shillings. Then, buttoning his coat against the cold winter wind, he walked out, a free man, into the street.
Chapter Twenty Two.
The Darkest Hour before the Dawn.
If the worshipful magistrate flattered himself that the reprimand he had addressed to Reginald that afternoon would move his hearer to self-abasement or penitence, he had sadly miscalculated the power of his own language.
Every word of that “caution” had entered like iron into the boy’s soul, and had roused in him every evil passion of which his nature was capable. A single word of sympathy or kindly advice might have won him heart and soul. But those stinging, brutal sentences goaded him almost to madness, and left him desperate.
What was the use of honesty, of principle, of conscientiousness, if they were all with one accord to rise against him and degrade him?