To be beaten by a cur
like that! To have that common cad of a pettifogging lawyer drag him
down and kick him about; tumble a name which had stood high, in the
dust! The fellow had the power to make him a byword and a beggar! It
was incredible! But it was a fact. And to-morrow he would begin to do
it--perhaps had begun already. His tree had come down with a crash!
Eighty years-eighty good years! He regretted none of them-regretted
nothing; least of all this breach of trust which had provided for his
grandchildren--one of the best things he had ever done. The fellow was
a cowardly hound, too! The way he had snatched the bell-pull out of
his reach-despicable cur! And a chap like that was to put "paid" to the
account of Sylvanus Heythorp, to "scratch" him out of life--so near the
end of everything, the very end! His hand raised above the surface fell
back on his stomach through the dark water, and a bubble or two rose.
Not so fast--not so fast! He had but to slip down a foot, let the water
close over his head, and "Good-bye" to Master Ventnor's triumph Dead men
could not be kicked off the Boards of Companies. Dead men could not be
beggared, deprived of their independence.
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