CHAPTER X
1
Sorrell's second persecution had lasted for two months.
The year gave an unusually beautiful spring, the spring that a gardener prepares for and so rarely enjoys, but to Sorrell the green budding of the year was a season of strife and humiliation. George Buck, flourishing like an elm tree, sucked all the sustenance and the moisture from his weaker rival.
"Saul,—luggage for number twenty-seven."
Sorrell was enduring blindly, but not so blindly as he believed. The work was now incessant, for the majority of the visitors stayed only one night, and their baggage had to be carried up one day and brought down the next. A strong lad would have thought nothing of the work, but to Sorrell it was travail and anguish and bitter sweat. There were times when his heart and lungs laboure
