There was a copy of a Methodist paper lying near it.

He took it up and tore it across with passion.

But his rage was not so much with the paper.
It was his own worthless, unstable, miserable self he would have rent if he could.

The wreck of ideal hopes, the defacement of that fair image of itself which every healthy youth bears about with it, could not have been more pitifully expressed.
Then he looked round to see if there was anything else that he could honestly take.

Yes--an ash stick he had cut himself a week or two ago.