Creighton of a damaged leg; the cook of
fame--and shamefully abused the opportunities of his distinction. Donkin
had an added grievance. He went about repeating with insistence:--"'E
said 'e would brain me--did yer 'ear? They are goin' to murder us now
for the least little thing." We began at last to think it was rather
awful. And we were conceited! We boasted of our pluck, of our capacity
for work, of our energy. We remembered honourable episodes: our
devotion, our indomitable perseverance--and were proud of them as though
they had been the outcome of our unaided impulses. We remembered our
danger, our toil--and conveniently forgot our horrible scare. We decried
our officers--who had done nothing--and listened to the fascinating
Donkin. His care for our rights, his disinterested concern for our
dignity, were not discouraged by the invariable contumely of our words,
by the disdain of our looks. Our contempt for him was unbounded--and we
could not but listen with interest to that consummate artist. He told
us we were good men--a "bloomin' condemned lot of good men." Who thanked
us? Who took any notice of our wrongs? Didn't we lead a "dorg's loife
for two poun' ten a month?" Did we think that miserable pay enough
to compensate us for the risk to our lives and for the loss of our
clothes? "We've lost every rag!" he cried.
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