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Not the spurious article which had passed for it at Mogg's that unpleasant type of conceit of which pimples and a high collar are the outward and visible sign. No, not that at all. He had cast that off with his frock coat, and in its place had grown the inherent pride which is the birthright of a man.
And so, in a dazed world of his own, Reginald Simpkins, Lance-Corporal and sometime pride of Mogg's, walked over No Man's Land. Every now and then he looked mechanically to his left and right, and grinned. At least he made a contortion with his facial muscles, which experience told him used to produce a grin. He did it to encourage the six.
Much of the gentle flattery to which he had been accustomed at Mogg's Mammoth Emporium seemed conspicuous by its absence in this new sphere in which he found himself. Not to put too fine a point on it, people seemed positively rude at times, even ruder than they had been at home. He confided as much in an aggrieved whisper to the unsympathetic Ginger. "Rude!"
Puffington, observed Sponge, who had a sort of general acquaintance with all the hounds and masters indeed, with all the meets of all the hounds in the kingdom which he read in the weekly lists in Bell's Life, just as he read Mogg's Cab Fares. 'Then you are Mr. Puffington? observed Sponge. 'The same, replied the stranger.
Above, the low-flying clouds scudded over the sky, and our friend lay back in his shell hole and pondered. With an inward chuckle he wondered what the beautiful Miss Belsize and the other fair ones of Mogg's would say if they could see him at that moment. A sense of physical well-being was on him, and he stretched himself luxuriously.
He moved slowly away and turned up a communication trench, while into the eyes of Mogg's pride there came a peculiar look quite foreign to his general disposition. A game a great game! He looked again at the poor still thing on the step, and his teeth clenched. Thus began his fall from gentility! . . . It was not a very rapid descent.
Sponge sat moodily in his chair, alternately studying Mogg's Cab Fares 'Old Bailey, Newgate Street, to or from the Adelphi, the Terrace, 1s. 6d.; Admiralty, 2s.; and so on; and hazarding promiscuous sidelong sort of observations, that might be taken up by Jack or not, as he liked. He seemed determined to pay Mr. Jack off for his out-of-door impudence.
The smirking housemaid, who was just rolling the fire-irons up in the hearth-rug, greeted him with a 'Please, sir, we've shifted you into the brown room, east, leading the way to the condemned cell that 'Jack' had occupied, where a newly lit fire was puffing out dense clouds of brown smoke, obscuring even the gilt letters on the back of Mogg's Cab Fares, as the little volume lay on the toilet-table.
'So we will, replied Jack, adding, 'if we had but a book of po'try we'd weave in some lines here. You haven't a book o' no sort with you that we could prig a little po'try from? asked he. 'No, replied Sponge thoughtfully. 'I'm afraid not; indeed, I'm sure not. I've got nothin' but Mogg's Cab Fares.
The majority of the human race was, without any loss to itself, unaware that he existed; but the "ladies" and "gentlemen" on the staff of Mogg's Mammoth Emporium viewed him as the supreme arbiter of elegance. And just because the average human being would have asserted and asserted correctly that for such as him there is no hope save drowning in puppyhood, I would tell his story.
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