“Why can't you leave me alone?” he said, “You're always worrying—”
A slow flush mounted into Stephen's cheeks but he said nothing.
“Well, why don't you say something? Nothing to say—it isn't bad enough that you've brought me into this—”
“Come, Mr. Peter,” Stephen answered slowly. “That ain't fair. I never brought you into this. I've done my best.”
“Oh, blame me, of course. That's natural enough. If it hadn't been for you—”
Stephen came into the middle of the floor.
“Come, Peter boy, yer tired. Yer don't know what yer saying. Best go to bed. Don't be saying anything that yer'd be regretting afterwards—”
Peter's eyes that had been closed, suddenly opened, blazing. “Oh, damn you and your talk—I hate you. I wish I'd never seen you—a rotten kind of friendship—” his voice died off into muttering.
Stephen went back to his bed. “This ain't fair, Mr. Peter,” he said in a low voice. “You'll be sorry afterwards. I ain't 'ad any very 'appy time myself these last weeks and now—”
Their nerves were like hot, jangling wires. Suddenly into the midst of that bare room there had sprung between them hatred. They faced each other . . . they could have leapt at one another's throats and fought. . . .
Suddenly Peter gave a little cry that seemed to fill the room. His head fell forward—
“Oh, Stephen, Stephen, I'm so damned ill, I'm so damnably ill.”
He caught for a moment at his chest as though he would tear his shirt open. Then he stumbled from the bed and lay in a heap on the floor with his hands spread out—
Stephen picked him up in his arms and carried him on to his bed.
III
The little doctor who attended to the wants of Bucket Lane was discovered at his supper. He was a dirty little man, with large dusty spectacles, a red nose and a bald
