‘But perhaps you haven’t seen, as I have, the terrible misery it has brought,’ said the curate, watching secretly with great interest to see what the result would be. Now Jim knew a great deal about himself, more than anybody else knew: but he did not accuse himself in this respect. He had not realised the danger here. In other ways he was aware that there was danger; but in this, for himself, no. ‘I’m not such a novice as you think,’ he said. ‘I’ve known fellows at Oxford--Good God! if one was to think of it, it’s enough to make your brain go round--nice fellows, men that there was no harm in, and yet---- ’ Jim walked on very soberly for a few minutes, thinking of tragic scenes he had seen. Even though he was so young, Heaven help him, he had seen tragic scenes. He had beheld with his own eyes the tribute of youth, which the infernal powers demand and receive wherever youth abounds. He knew it well enough. But for himself there was no question of that; for himself there was only a little escape from paternal coercion--a place to lounge in when he had nothing to do, a set of people obsequious, admiring him whenever he opened his mouth. Danger in the ‘Blue Boar!’ He could have laughed at the thought; and so had the nice fellows by whose example he was not warned. He did not say anything at all for a few minutes, being deeply moved by things he remembered, though not by any trouble for himself. ‘Plowden,’ said the curate, ‘that’s one thing I wanted to speak to you about. I don’t know how you feel, but to think upon those men makes me so sick at heart that I don’t know what to do. They’re so often nice fellows: and how are we to get hold of them? How are we to stop them? You’re freshly out of it, you’re of the present generation. What is a man that wants to stop them to do?’ Jim gave him a frightened half-glance, then lowered his eyes. ‘Good Heavens,’ he said, ‘what a question to ask! How am I to know?’ ‘How is one to get at them? How is one to get hold of them?’ said the curate. ‘There’s always some way of getting at the young fellows in the slums. You may not do any good, but yet you can say out what you’ve got to say. There’s the river men, the boatmen, and all those. I don’t say that usually they pay a bit of attention, but now and then there’s a chance of getting hold of them and speaking one’s mind. They can’t help listening to you, and they know what you say is true. But the gentlemen are different. You can’t get at them, and they wouldn’t believe it if you did; they don’t know the result. They think they can stop when they please, and there will always be some one who will stick to them. How are we to get hold of them, Plowden?--our own very brothers, men of our own kind. They’re all our brothers, every one, to be sure; but think, Plowden, those fellows at Oxford, in London, everywhere. God help us! all the harm isn’t in the slums. There must be some way of getting at them too!’