A lady looking at him through raised
lorgnettes turned and whispered something with a smile to her
companion - once before he had heard an audible titter from a
little group of loiterers. He returned the glance with a
lightning-like look of diabolical fierceness, and, turning round,
stood upon the curbstone and called a hansom.
A sense of depression swept over him as he was driven through the
crowded streets towards Waterloo. The half-scornful, half-earnest
prophecy, to which he had listened years ago in a squalid African
hut, flashed into his mind. For the first time he began to have
dim apprehensions as to his future. All his life he had been a
toiler, and joy had been with him in the fierce combat which he had
waged day by day. He had fought his battle and he had won - where
were the fruits of his victory? A puny, miserable little creature
like Dickenson could prate of happiness and turn a shining face to
the future - Dickenson who lived upon a pittance, who depended upon
the whim of his employer, and who confessed to ambitions which
were surely pitiable. Trent lit a fresh cigar and smiled; things
would surely come right with him - they must. What Dickenson could
gain was surely his by right a thousand times over.
He took the train for Walton, travelling first class, and treated
with much deference by the officials on the line.
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