"Believe me, at a time like this such moods and
caprices have their use. Nature very well knows what she is about."
"Nature? Bah! I am no great believer in nature," gave back John, and
emptied his glass of madeira. "Nature exists to be coerced and
improved."
They parted; and Mahony went back to twirl his thumbs in the hotel
coffee-room. He could not persuade himself to take Turnham's advice and
leave Johnny to his fate. And the delay was nearly over. At dawn next
morning Johnny was found lying in a pitiable condition at the door of
the hotel. It took Mahony the best part of the day to rouse him; to make
him understand he was not to be horsewhipped; to purchase a fresh suit
of clothing for him: to get him, in short, halfway ready to travel the
following day--a blear-eyed, weak-witted craven, who fell into a cold
sweat at every bump of the coach. Not till they reached the end of the
awful journey--even a Chinaman rose to impudence about Johnny's nerves,
his foul breath, his cracked lips--did Mahony learn how the wretched
boy had come by the money for his debauch. At the public-house where the
coach drew up, old Ocock stood grimly waiting, with a leather thong at
his belt, and the news that his till had been broken open and robbed of
its contents. With an involuntary recommendation to mercy, Mahony handed
over the culprit and turned his steps home.
Polly stood on tip-toe to kiss him; Pompey barked till the roof rang,
making leaps that fell wide of the mark; the cat hoisted its tail, and
wound purring in and out between his legs.
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