A second spasm shook Albert to the core of his being.  The double assault was too much for him.  Betrayed by the body, the spirit yielded.

“You wouldn’t do that, Mr. Keggs!”

There was a white flag in every syllable.

“I would if I did my duty.”

“But you don’t care about that,” urged Albert ingratiatingly.

“I’ll have to think it over,” mused Keggs.  “I don’t want to be ’and on a young boy.”  He struggled silently with himself.  “Ruinin’ ’is prospecks!”

An inspiration seemed to come to him.

“All right, young blighted Albert,” he said briskly.  “I’ll go against my better nature this once and chance it.  And now, young feller me lad, you just ’and over that ticket of yours!  You know what I’m alloodin’ to!  That ticket you ’ad at the sweep, the one with ‘Mr. X’ on it.”

Albert’s indomitable spirit triumphed for a moment over his stricken body.

“That’s likely, ain’t it!”

Keggs sighed—­the sigh of a good man who has done his best to help a fellow-being and has been baffled by the other’s perversity.

“Just as you please,” he said sorrowfully.  “But I did ’ope I shouldn’t ’ave to go to ’is lordship and tell ’im ’ow you’ve deceived him.”

Albert capitulated. “’Ere yer are!” A piece of paper changed hands.  “It’s men like you wot lead to ’arf the crime in the country!”

“Much obliged, me lad.”

“You’d walk a mile in the snow, you would,” continued Albert pursuing his train of thought, “to rob a starving beggar of a ha’penny.”

“Who’s robbing anyone?  Don’t you talk so quick, young man.  I’m doing the right thing by you.  You can ’ave my ticket, marked ‘Reggie Byng’.  It’s a fair exchange, and no one the worse!”

“Fat lot of good that is!”

“That’s as it may be.  Anyhow, there it is.”  Keggs prepared to withdraw.  “You’re too young to ’ave all that money, Albert.  You wouldn’t know what to do with it.  It wouldn’t make you ’appy.  There’s other things in the world besides winning sweepstakes.  And, properly speaking, you ought never to have been allowed to draw at all, being so young.”

Albert groaned hollowly.  “When you’ve finished torkin’, I wish you’d kindly have the goodness to leave me alone.  I’m not meself.”

“That,” said Keggs cordially, “is a bit of luck for you, my boy.  Accept my ’eartiest felicitations!”

Defeat is the test of the great man.  Your true general is not he who rides to triumph on the tide of an easy victory, but the one who, when crushed to earth, can bend himself to the task of planning methods of rising again.  Such a one was Albert, the page-boy.  Observe Albert in his attic bedroom scarcely more than an hour later.  His body has practically ceased to trouble him, and his soaring spirit has come into its own again.  With the exception of a now very occasional spasm, his physical anguish has passed, and he is thinking, thinking hard.  On the chest of drawers is a grubby envelope, addressed in an ill-formed hand to: