He stopped in the middle of the pavement as if a shot had struck him.  Supposing Dagworthy had no recollection of a ten-pound note having been lost, nor of any note having been lost; and supposing it occurred to him that he, Hood, had in reality found a larger sum, had invented the story of the lost hat, and was returning a portion only of his discovery, to gain the credit of honesty?  Such an idea could only possess the brain of a man whose life had been a struggle amid the chicaneries and despicabilities of commerce; who knew that a man’s word was never trusted where there could enter the slightest suspicion of an advantage to himself in lying; whose daily terror had been lest some error, some luckless chance, should put him within the nets of criminality.  It is the deepest curse of such a life as his that it directs the imagination in channels of meanness, and preoccupies the thought with sordid fears.  What would it avail him, in the present instance, to call the shopman to witness?  The note, ten to one, would be paid away, and here also a man’s word was worth nothing.  But Dagworthy might merely think such an accusation:  ay, that would be the worst.  To lie henceforth under suspicion of dishonesty:  that meant, to lose his place before long, on some pretence.

And he felt that, in spite of absolute sincerity, he could not stand before Dagworthy and tell his tale with the face and voice of an honest man,—­felt it with a horrible certainty.  In a man of Hood’s character, this state of mind was perfectly natural.  Not only was he weakly constructed, but his incessant ill-fortune had done him that last wrong which social hardship can inflict upon the individual, it, had undermined his self-respect.  Having been so often treated like a dog, he had come to expect such treatment, and, what was worse, but feebly to resent it.  He had lost the conscious dignity of manhood; nay, had perhaps never possessed it, for his battle had begun at so early an age.  The sense that he was wretchedly poor, and the knowledge that poverty is the mother of degradation, made him at any moment a self-convicted criminal; accused, however wrongly, it was inevitable that his face should be against him.  To go to Dagworthy with sovereigns in his hand, and this story upon his lips, would be to invite suspicion by every strongest sign of guilt.

I am representing the poor fellow’s thoughts and feelings.  Whether or not Dagworthy would really entertain such a suspicion is quite another matter.  For the first time in his life, Hood had used for his own purposes money which did not belong to him; he did it under the pressure of circumstances, and had not time to reflect till the act was irrevocable.  Then this horror came upon him.  Forgetting his errand, he drew aside into a quieter street, and struggled with his anguish.  Do you laugh at him for his imbecility?  Try first to understand him.