There were many photographs hung on the walls, or stuck in
prim frames, but the likeness he sought for was not among
them. At last, in an album thrust out of sight, he came
across what he wanted. There was a whole series, labelled
``Tom,'' a podgy child of three, in a fantastic frock, an
awkward boy of about twelve, holding a cricket bat as though
be loathed it, a rather good-looking youth of eighteen with
very smooth, evenly parted hair, and, finally, a young man
with a somewhat surly dare-devil expression. At this last
portrait Stoner looked with particular interest; the
likeness to himself was unmistakable.
From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on
most subjects, he tried again and again to learn something
of the nature of the offence which shut him off as a
creature to be shunned and hated by hiss fellow-men.
``What do the folk around here say about me?'' he asked
one day as they were walking home from an outlying field.
The old man shook his head.
``They be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Ay, 'tis a sad
business, a sad business.''
And never could he be got to say anything more
enlightening.
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