“That you, Bob Hewett?”
“I want to stop here over the night,” replied the other, speaking with difficulty. “I can’t go home. There’s something up.”
“With Pennyloaf?”
“No. I’ve got to hide away. And I’m feeling bad—awful bad. Have you got anything to drink?”
Stephen, having listened with the face of a somnambulist, went to the mantelpiece and looked into the teapot. It was empty.
“You can go to the tap in the yard,” he said.
“I couldn’t get so far. Oh, I feel bad!”
“I’ll fetch you some water.”
A good-hearted animal, this poor Stephen; a very tolerable human being, had he had fair-play. He would not abandon his wretched mother, though to continue living with her meant hunger and cold and yet worse evils. For himself, his life was supported chiefly on the three pints of liquor which he was allowed every day. His arms and legs were those of a living skeleton; his poor idiotic face was made yet more repulsive by disease. Yet you could have seen that he was the brother of Pennyloaf; there was Pennyloaf’s submissive beast-
