Nicky-Nan read this amiable missive through, and re-read it almost to
the end before realising the menace of it. At the first perusal his
mind was engaged with the mechanical task of deciphering the script
and with speculating on its authorship. . . . He came to the end with
no full grasp of the purport.

His wits were dulled, too, being preoccupied--in spite of
Lippity-Libby--with suspicions of Mr Pamphlett. He recognised the
hand of an enemy; and though conscious of possessing few friends in
the world (none, maybe--he did not care how many or how few, anyway),
he was aware of one only enemy--Pamphlett. He held this tenement
which Pamphlett openly coveted: but what besides had he that any one
could envy? Who else could wish him worse off than he was?
His broken past, his present poverty and daily mental anguish, his
future sans hope--any one who wanted these might take 'em and
welcome!

But when, on the second reading, he reached the last paragraph but
one, his heart stood still for a moment as if under a sudden stab.

Yes, . . . in the man or woman who had written this letter he had an
enemy who indeed wished him worse off than he was, and not only worse
but much worse; who would take from him not only the roof over his
head, but even the dreadful refuge of the Workhouse; who would hunt
him down even into jail. That talk about his not going to the War
was all nonsense. How could all the Coastguard or Custom-house
Officers in Christendom force a man to go to the War with a growth
under his thigh as big as your fist? Damn the War!--he'd scarcely