Upon this day, more than any other in his young
life, he ached, he longed for some explanation. Then, sitting there in
his corner, there came to him a discovery, the force of which was never,
throughout all his later life, to leave him. He had been deserted by his
friend. His last link with that other life was broken. He was here,
planted in the strangest of strange places, with nothing whatever to
help him. He was alone; he must fight for his own hand. He would--from
that moment, seated there beneath the window, Ernest Henry Wilberforce
challenged the terrors of this world, and found them sawdust--he would
say "damn" as often as he pleased. "Damn, damn, damn, damn," he
whispered, and marked again, with meditative eye, the space from wall to
screen.
After this, greatly cheered, he bethought him of the Square. Last night
his friend had said to him that when he wished to think of him, and go
back for a time to the other world, a peep into the Square would assist
him. He clambered up on to the window-seat, caught behind him those
sounds, "Now, Master Ernest," which he now definitely connected with
condemnation and disapproval, shook his curls in defiance, and pressed
his nose to the glass.
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