A questioner was
before him who, poor, unheeded, an ancient victim of vice, could yet
wield a weapon whose sweep of wounds would be wide. Stern and masterful
as he looked in his arid isolation, beneath all was a shaking anxiety.
He knew well what the old chair-maker had come to say, but, in the
prologue of the struggle before him, he was unwittingly manoeuvring for
position.
"Speak," he added presently, as Soolsby fumbled in his great loose
pockets, and drew forth a paper. "What has thee to say?"
Without a word, Soolsby handed over the paper, but the other would not
take it.
"What is it?" he asked, his lips growing pale. "Read--if thee can read."
The gibe in the last words made the colour leap into Soolsby's face, and
a fighting look came. He too had staved off this inevitable hour, had
dreaded it, but now his courage shot up high.
"Doost think I have forgotten how to read since the day I put my hand to
a writing you've hid so long from them it most concerns? Ay, I can read,
and I can write, and I will prove that I can speak too before I've done.
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