So he made his dispositions and went off on some other fool’s errand. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. Afterwards, it may be different. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. Me, I have a question for you first. Of his own certain knowledge he could tell them that.
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