Not that. But honestly, and speaking as a man to a man,
I don't see any other crime in the calendar (except arson) that I don't
seem somehow to have committed. And yet I'm a perfectly respectable man,
and wished nothing but my due. Law is a pretty business.'
With this conclusion firmly seated in his mind, Morris Finsbury
descended to the hall of the house in John Street, still half-shaven.
There was a letter in the box; he knew the handwriting: John at last!
'Well, I think I might have been spared this,' he said bitterly, and
tore it open.
Dear Morris [it ran], what the dickens do you mean by it? I'm in an
awful hole down here; I have to go on tick, and the parties on the spot
don't cotton to the idea; they couldn't, because it is so plain I'm in a
stait of Destitution. I've got no bedclothes, think of that, I must have
coins, the hole thing's a Mockry, I wont stand it, nobody would. I would
have come away before, only I have no money for the railway fare. Don't
be a lunatic, Morris, you don't seem to understand my dredful situation.
I have to get the stamp on tick. A fact.
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