“Father, don’t take them away. Let me give them to-morrow. You can punish me any way you like. You can beat me or take away my pocket money for ever or anything you like—but let me give them to-morrow. Please, father. Please, father.” “That must be part of your punishment, my son,” Mr. Cole said very sorrowfully and finding it difficult to balance the things one upon another in his arms. In another second of time, Jeremy was upon him, screaming, beating with his fists, scratching with his hands, crying: “You shan’t take them! You shan’t take them! They’re mine! You’re wicked! You’re wicked! They’re my things! You shan’t take them!” He was mad, wild, frantic. His hands were round his father’s thigh, his head beating against his father’s chest, his legs kicking against his father’s calves. He screamed like something not human. For a moment Mr. Cole was almost carried off his balance. The things that he was carrying—the hair brush, the necklace, the picture—went tumbling on the floor. Then Jeremy was picked up and, still kicking and breathless, flung on to the bed. Then the door closed and the boy was alone. IV The first real agony of Jeremy’s young life followed. Two years before, just at this time, he had been in disgrace for telling a lie. His misery had been acute for an hour or two, and then, with the swift memory of eight years old, it had been forgotten and covered up. This was another business. When, after lying stunned for a long time, thoughts came to him, his first emotion was one of blind, mad rage—an emotion quite new to him, never felt before. Injustice! Injustice! That was a new word written on the pages of his life’s book, never again to be eradicated. There came before him at once, as though it were being presented to him by some new friend who was with him in the room for the first time, the picture of the afternoon when he had bought the presents. The group of boys who had gone into the little neighbouring town to buy things that they were “taking home,” his consciousness of the fifteen shillings as absolutely his own, his first thought that he would buy sweets with some of it and keep the rest for the holidays, then the sudden flash of inspiration, presents for everybody, Christmas presents for everybody; and with that the sudden flooding of his heart with love for home, for Polchester, for everyone, even Aunt Amy and the kitchenmaid, and then his delighted discovery in the general shop where they were, that there were so many different things to buy and so many so cheap. The half-hour that he had and the wonderful excitement of taking back his parcels, himself packing them in his play-box—and it ends in this! He hadn’t _known_ that the money was not for him; he hadn’t thought for a moment that it was not!