Various worries were
pecking at him--the hint he had given Polly of their existence seemed
to have let them fairly loose upon him. Of course he would be--he was--
suspected of having connived at the imposture by which his suit was won
--why else have put it in the hands of such a one as Ocock? John
Turnham's soundless whistle of astonishment recurred to him, and flicked
him. Imagine it! He, Richard Mahony, giving his sanction to these queasy
tricks!
It was bad enough to know that Ocock at any rate had believed him not
averse from winning by unjust means. Yet, on the whole, he thought this
mortified him less than to feel that he had been written down a Simple
Simon, whom it was easy to impose on. Ah well! At best he had been but a
kind of guy, set up for them to let off their verbal fireworks round.
Faith and that was all these lawyer-fellows wanted--the ghost of an
excuse for parading their skill. Justice played a negligible role in
this battle of wits; else not he but the plaintiff would have come out
victorious. That wretched Bolliver! . . . the memory of him wincing and
flushing in the witness-box would haunt him for the rest of his days. He
could see him, too, with equal clearness, broken-heartedly slitting the
gizzards of his, pets. A poor old derelict--the amen to a life which,
like most lives, had once been flush with promise. And it had been his
Mahony's., honourable portion to give the last kick, the ultimate shove
into perdition.
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