BARTLETT ONE LIKE IT.
Alfred stood and read this again, and again he searched for some hidden
symbolical meaning in the words. High-minded, and deeply impressed with
his own wrongs, he could not conceive a respectable man, paid fifteen
hundred a year to spy out wrongs, being so heartless hard as to write
this single comment during the earnest recital of a wrong so gigantic as
his. Poor Alfred learned this to his cost, that to put small men into
great places is to create monsters. When he had realised the bitter
truth, he put the stony-hearted paper in his pocket, crept into the yard,
and sat down, and, for all he could do, scalding tears ran down his
cheeks.
"Homunculi quanti sunt!" he sobbed; "homunculi quanti sunt!"
Presently he saw Dr. Terry come wandering towards him alone. The Archbold
had not deigned to make him safe; senectitude had done that. Alfred, all
heart--sick as he was, went to the old gentleman out of veneration for
the outside of his head--which was Shakespearian--and pity for his bodily
infirmity; and offered him an arm. The doctor thanked him sweetly, and
said, "Pray, young man, have you anything to communicate?"
Then Alfred saw that the ancient man had already forgotten his face, and
so looking at him with that rare instrument of official inspection, the
naked eye, had seen he was sane; and consequently taken him for a keeper.
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