But the end of it all was a frowzy, hopeless disorder.
Cosgrave lay huddled over the littered table by the open window. The red
untidy head made a patch of grotesque colour in the general murk. He
looked like a poor rag doll that had been torn and battered in some wild
carnival scrimmage and flung aside.
There was not much in him--not much fight, as he himself said. Not the
sort to survive. Life was too strong--too difficult for him. He bungled
everything--even an exam. It would be wiser, more consistent to let him
drift. And yet at sight of that futile breakdown, it was not impatience
or contempt that Robert felt, but a choking tenderness--a fierce pity.
He had to protect him--pull him through. He had promised so much--he
forgot when: that afternoon lying in the long, sooty grass behind the
biscuit factory, or that night when he had dragged Cosgrave breathless
and staggering in pursuit of the Greatest Show in Europe. It did not
matter. It had become part of himself. And Cosgrave had always trusted
him--believed in him.
"It's all right, old man; it's only me--Robert." For Cosgrave had leapt
up with an eager cry, and now stood staring at him open-mouthed. The
light was behind him, and the open mouth and blank, shadowy face made a
queer, ghastly effect, as though a drowned man had suddenly stood up.
Then he sagged pitifully, and Robert caught him by the shoulders and
shook him with a rough, boyish impatience.
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