Platt was doing his best to help Parsons, and inciting public opinion against Morrison. But Parsons would not hear of anything against Morrison. “He was all right, O’ Man—according to his lights,” said Parsons. “It isn’t him I complain of.”
He speculated on the morrow. “I shall ’ave to pay a fine,” he said. “No good trying to get out of it. It’s true I hit him. I hit him”—he paused and seemed to be seeking an exquisite accuracy. His voice sank to a confidential note;—“On the head—about here.”
He answered the suggestion of a bright junior apprentice in a corner of the dormitory. “What’s the Good of a Cross summons?” he replied; “with old Corks, the chemist, and Mottishead, the house agent, and all that lot on the Bench? Humble Pie, that’s my meal to-morrow, O’ Man. Humble Pie.”
Packing went on for a time.
“But Lord! what a Life it is!” said Parsons, giving his deep notes scope. “Ten-thirty-five a man trying to do his Duty, mistaken perhaps, but trying his best; ten-forty—Ruined! Ruined!” He lifted his voice to a shout. “Ruined!” and dropped it to “Like an earthquake.”
“Heated altaclation,” said Polly.
“Like a blooming earthquake!” said Parsons, with the notes of a rising wind.
He meditated gloomily upon his future and a colder chill invaded Polly’s mind. “Likely to get another crib,
