And the high-souled critic, finding these reflections sordid, would have thought otherwise, perhaps, had he been standing on those feet (now twitching all by themselves beneath the bedclothes) up to eleven o’clock the night before, because there were still twelve numbers of the late edition that nobody would buy.  No one knew more surely than Joshua Creed himself that, if he suffered himself to entertain any large and lofty views of life, he would infallibly find himself in that building to keep out of which he was in the habit of addressing to God his only prayer to speak of.  Fortunately, from a boy up, together with a lengthy, oblong, square-jawed face, he had been given by Nature a single-minded view of life.  In fact, the mysterious, stout tenacity of a soul born in the neighbourhood of Newmarket could not have been done justice to had he constitutionally seen—­any more than Mr. Stone himself—­two things at a time.  The one thing he had seen, for the five years that he had now stood outside Messrs. Rose and Thorn’s, was the workhouse; and, as he was not going there so long as he was living, he attended carefully to all little matters of expense in this somewhat sordid way.

While attending thus, he heard a scream.  Having by temperament considerable caution, but little fear, he waited till he heard another, and then got out of bed.  Taking the poker in his hand, and putting on his spectacles, he hurried to the door.  Many a time and oft in old days had he risen in this fashion to defend the plate of the “Honorable Bateson” and the Dowager Countess of Glengower from the periodical attacks of his imagination.  He stood with his ancient nightgown flapping round his still more ancient legs, slightly shivering; then, pulling the door open, he looked forth.  On the stairs just above him Mrs. Hughs, clasping her baby with one arm, was holding the other out at full length between herself and Hughs.  He heard the latter say:  “You’ve drove me to it; I’ll do a swing for you!” Mrs. Hughs’ thin body brushed past into his room; blood was dripping from her wrist.  Creed saw that Hughs had his bayonet in his hand.  With all his might he called out:  “Ye ought to be ashamed of yourself!” raising the poker to a position of defence.  At this moment—­more really dangerous than any he had ever known—­it was remarkable that he instinctively opposed to it his most ordinary turns of speech.  It was as though the extravagance of this un-English violence had roused in him the full measure of a native moderation.  The sight of the naked steel deeply disgusted him; he uttered a long sentence.  What did Hughs call this—­disgracin’ of the house at this time in the mornin’?  Where was he brought up?  Call ‘imself a soldier, attackin’ of old men and women in this way?  He ought to be ashamed!

While these words were issuing between the yellow stumps of teeth in that withered mouth, Hughs stood silent, the back of his arm covering his eyes.  Voices and a heavy tread were heard.  Distinguishing in that tread the advancing footsteps of the Law, Creed said:  “You attack me if you dare!”