"To be sure," she answered. "I am much obliged to you for--carrying my
parcel. Be a honest boy whatever comes, and you will not repent it."

"I will try, ma'am," said Clare.

But, to speak accurately, he did not know what it was to _try_ to be
honest: he had never been tempted to be anything else, and had
scarcely had the idea of dishonesty in his mind except in relation to
Tommy. Do you say, "Then it was no merit to him"? Certainly it was
none. Who was thinking of merit? Not Clare. He is a sneak who thinks
of merit. He is a cad who can't do a gentlemanly action without
thinking himself a fine fellow! It might be a merit in many a man to
act as Clare did, but in Clare it was pure rightness--or, if you like
the word better, righteousness.

Clare as little thought what awaited him. Had there been any truth,
any appreciation of honesty in his vulgar heart, Mr. Maidstone could
not have done as now he did. When his messenger came back with the
tale of how he had been foiled, he said nothing, but his lips grew
white. He closed them fast, and went and stood near the door. When
Clare, unsuspecting as innocent, opened it, he was met by a blow that
dazed him, and a fierce kick that sent him on his back to the
curbstone. Almost insensible, but with the impression that something
was interfering between him and his work, he returned to the door. As
he laid his hand on it, it opened a little, and his master's face,
with a hateful sneer upon it, shot into the crack, and spit in
his. Then the door shut so sharply that his fingers caught an
agonizing pinch. At last he understood: he was turned off, and his
day's wages were lost!