Some one had brought him there, a good-natured young fellow who
thought, not that he had spent all he ought, but that he had drunk all
he should.
"Not used to it, you know," he had said with good-humoured apology;
"been rusticating out of the way so long. Better come out and get a
breath of air, it'll pull you together."
And he persuaded him out, walked some way down the street with him and
then, seeing that he seemed all right, left him and went to attend to
his own business.
For a little the Captain stood where he was, the depression, begotten
of whisky and his losses, growing upon him in the old overwhelming
way. No one took any notice of him; passers by jostled against him,
for the pavement was rather narrow, but no one paid any attention to
him. The bustle bewildered his weak head, and the noise and movement
of the traffic in the roadway irritated him unreasonably. A youth ran
into him and he exploded angrily with sudden weak unrestrained fury.
Thereat the boy laughed, and, when he shouted and stamped his foot,
ran away saying something impudent. The Captain turned to run after
him shaking his stick; but he was stiff and rheumatic and weak on his
legs, too, just now. It was no use to try and run. Of course it was no
use, nothing was any use now, he was a miserable failure, he could not
even run after a boy; he must bear every one's taunts; he could almost
have wept in self-pity.
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