He knew simultaneously that he was a fool and a free man.

For with any recovery from morbidity there must go a certain healthy humiliation.

There comes a certain point in such conditions when only three things are possible: first a perpetuation of Satanic pride, secondly tears, and third laughter.

Syme's egotism held hard to the first course for a few seconds, and then suddenly adopted the third.
Taking his own blue police ticket from his own waist coat pocket, he tossed it on to the table; then he flung his head back until his spike of yellow beard almost pointed at the ceiling, and shouted with a barbaric laughter.
Even in that close den, perpetually filled with the din of knives, plates, cans, clamorous voices, sudden struggles and stampedes, there was something Homeric in Syme's mirth which made many half-drunken men look round.
"What yer laughing at, guv'nor ?" asked one wondering labourer from the docks.
"At myself," answered Syme, and went off again into the agony of his ecstatic reaction.
"Pull yourself together," said the Professor, "or you'll get hysterical.
Have some more beer.

I'll join you." "You haven't drunk your milk," said Syme.
"My milk!" said the other, in tones of withering and unfathomable contempt, "my milk! Do you think I'd look at the beastly stuff when I'm out of sight of the bloody anarchists?
We're all Christians in this room, though perhaps," he added, glancing around at the reeling crowd, "not strict ones.