"What was the most remarkable about Powell," he enunciated dogmatically
with his head in a cloud of smoke, "is that he should have had just that
name. You see, my name happens to be Powell too."

It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for social
purposes. It required no acknowledgment. We continued to gaze at him
with expectant eyes.

He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a silent
minute or two. Then picking up the thread of his story he told us how he
had started hot foot for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since the
day of his examination--the finest day of his life--the day of his
overweening pride. It was very different now. He would not have called
the Queen his cousin, still, but this time it was from a sense of
profound abasement. He didn't think himself good enough for anybody's
kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers on the stand, the
boot-black boys at the edge of the pavement, the two large bobbies pacing
slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the consciousness of their
infallible might, and the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and
fro before the Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme of
world's labour. And he envied also the miserable sallow, thin-faced
loafers blinking their obscene eyes and rubbing their greasy shoulders
against the door-jambs of the Black Horse pub, because they were too far
gone to feel their degradation.

I must render the man the justice that he conveyed very well to us the
sense of his youthful hopelessness surprised at not finding its place in
the sun and no recognition of its right to live.