By the lion Stephen was waiting for him, standing huge and solemn as the crowd surged past. He pressed Peter's arm to show that he was pleased to see him and then, without speaking, they pushed through, past Charing Cross station, and down the hill to the Underground.
Here, once again, there was startling silence. No one seemed to be using the trains at all.
“I'm afraid it ain't much of a place that I'm taking yer to,” Stephen said. “We can't pick and choose yer know and I was there before and she's a good woman.”
A chill seemed to come with them into the carriage. Suddenly to Peter the comforts of Brockett's stretched out alluring arms, then he pulled himself together.
“I'm sure it will be splendid,” he said, “and it will be just lovely being with you after all this time.”
They got out and plunged into a city of black night. Around them, on every side there was silence—even the broad central thoroughfare seemed to be deserted and on either side of it, to right and left, black grim roads like open mouths, lay waiting for the unwary traveller.
Down one of these they plunged; Peter was conscious of faces watching them. “Bucket Lane” was the street's title to fame. Windows showed dim candles, in the distance a sharp cry broke the silence and then fell away again. The street was very narrow and from the running gutters there stole into the air the odour of stale cabbage.
“This is the 'ouse.” Stephen stopped. Somewhere, above their heads, a child was crying.
