It was this same sensational added element of the death,
too, which would count with a jury. They were always gross,
sentimental fools, these juries. They would mix up the death
and the deal in Rubber Consols, and in their fat-headed
confusion would say "Penal Servitude--fourteen years."
Or no, it was the Judge who fixed that. But the Judges
were fools, too; they were too conceited, too puffed
up with vanity, to take the trouble to understand.
He groaned aloud in a nightmare of helplessness.
The sound of his own voice, moaning in his ears,
had a magical effect upon him. He lifted his head,
gazed about him, and then flushed deeply. His nerveless
cowardice had all at once become unbelievable to himself.
With a shamed frown he straightened himself, and stood
thus for a long minute, engrossed in the definite
task of chasing these phantoms from his mind.
Once a manly front was displayed to them, they slunk away
with miraculous facility. He poured out some brandy,
and sipped it neat, and laughed scornfully, defiantly, aloud.
He had over half a million--with power and force and
courage enough to do with it what he liked. He had fought
luck undauntedly, unwearyingly, during all those years when
his hands were empty. Was he to tremble and turn tail now,
when his hands were full, when he was armoured and weaponed
at every point? He was amazed and hurt, and still more enraged,
at that fit of girlish weakness which had possessed him.
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