My headquarters are my
secret."
"Well"--he tried to speak in a matter-of-fact and reasonable way--"at
any rate, a general must have munition. I'd like to help financially.
You can't refuse me that."
They were almost through the labyrinth of Soho and on the brink of
Oxford Street. Mr. Ricardo stopped again with his hand spread out flat
upon his breast in a gesture not without power and dignity.
"You think I am a failure, sir, because I go poorly dressed. You are
mistaken. In the struggle that I am carrying on, outward and material
things are of no account. I might have all the wealth and all the
armies of the world, sir, and be further from victory than I am now.
The fight is here, sir, in the spirit of man, and the weaker and poorer
I become the nearer I am to the final effort. I am a fighter, sir,
stripping himself--presently I shall throw off the last hindrance, and
if the enemy will not show himself I shall seek him out--I shall force
him to stand answer----" He broke off. The chain of white-hot
coherency had snapped and left him peering about him vaguely, and a
little anxiously, as though he were afraid someone had overheard him.
"It has been very difficult--there were circumstances--so many
circumstances----" He sighed and finished on the toneless
parrot-note of the street orator: "My next meeting will be at Marble
Arch, 3 p.m., on Tuesday. Thank you for your attention, and
good-night."
He lifted his hat and bowed to left and right as though to an assembled
multitude.
Pages:
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293