"
Scudamore lifted the relics of his hat, and went in search of some other
Job's comforter. Instead of a passage to England, he saw in a straight
line before him the only journey which a mortal may take without paying
his fare.
To save himself from this gratuitous tour, he earned a little money in
a porter's gang, till his quick step roused the indignation of the rest.
With the loftiest perception of the rights of man, they turned him
out of that employment (for the one "sacred principle of labour" is to
play), and he, understanding now the nature, of democracy, perceived
that of all the many short-cuts to starvation, the one with the fewest
elbows to it is--to work.
While he was meditating upon these points--which persons of big words
love to call "questions of political economy"--his hat, now become a
patent ventilator, sat according to custom on the back of his
head, exposing his large calm forehead, and the kind honesty of his
countenance. Then he started a little, for his nerves were not quite
as strong as when they had good feeding, at the sudden sense of being
scrutinized by the most piercing gaze he had ever encountered.
The stranger was an old man of tall spare frame, wearing a shovel-hat
and long black gown drawn in with a belt, and around his bare neck was a
steel chain supporting an ebony cross. With a smile, which displayed the
firm angles of his face, he addressed the young man in a language which
Scudamore could not understand, but believed to be Portuguese.
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