The hours wore on. Even the printing-office when he passed it again was going to rest. The compositors one by one were flitting home, and the engine was dropping asleep. He stood and watched the men come out, and wondered if any of them were like himself—whether among them was a young Gedge or a Durfy?
Then he wandered off back into the heart of the town. A wretched outcast woman, with a child in her arms, stood at the street corner and accosted him.
“Do, kind gentleman, give me a penny. The child’s starving, and we’re so cold and hungry.”
“I’d give you one if I had one,” said Reginald; “but I’m as poor as you are.”
The woman sighed, and drew her rags round the infant.
Reginald watched her for a moment, and then, taking off his overcoat, said,—
“You’d better put this round you.”
And he dropped it at her feet, and hurried away before she could pick up the gift, or bless the giver.
He gave himself no credit for the deed, and he wanted none. What did he care about a coat? he who had been frozen to the heart already. Would a coat revive his good name, or cover the disgrace of that magisterial caution?
The clocks struck four, and the long winter night grew bleaker and darker. It was eleven hours since he had taken that last defiant meal, and Nature began slowly to assert her own with the poor outcast. He was faint and tired out, and the breeze cut him through. Still the rebel spirit within him denied that he was in distress. No food or rest or shelter for him! All he craved was leave to lose himself and forget his own name.