It had crippled him for life. True enough, there were other things to
do. Some stockbrokers make twenty per cent. on their money, not in
wild speculation, but in straightforward genuine business. He might go
up to London and learn the business--he had heard that it would not
take more than six months or a year to pick it up--and start on his
own account. A thousand pounds would be sufficient to begin with; or
he might buy a partnership--he could do that for three or four
thousand. Either of these courses would suit him, the latter for
preference, but a certain amount of capital would be necessary before
he could take either, and that he hadn't got, and to all appearances
it would be very difficult to persuade his father to consent to drawany
more money out of the distillery.

So Willy's thoughts ran as he ascended the flight of wooden steps that
led to the platform of the little country station. "The folk down here
think there is nothing in me, that I am good for nothing but walking
up and down the King's Road, but they little know what I have in my
head. I'll make them open their eyes one of these days." The sting of
vanity is in us all. Our heads may be greed, our bellies lust, our
limbs charity, faithfulness, truth, and goodwill, but in some cranny
of our tails vanity always lies, only it may be marvellously well
hidden, as in Willy. The keenest observer would not have detected it
in him, and when he came out of his habitual reserve and lamented that
bad luck had always followed him and spoke of his projects, one might
have suspected him of greed, but hardly of vanity. Now he stood
leaning on the wooden paling, and his movements showed the back and
loins in strong outline, marking the thick calves. Without taking any
heed, his eyes followed the cricket ball, which was in turn slogged
into the horse-pond and cottage gardens. Through long familiarity, the
green had faded from his notice, nor did the burnt-up crops on the