He took a piece of soap from a shelf of the cupboard, threw a dirty rag over his arm, and went down to wash at the tap in the yard. Only on returning did he address Bob.
“Feelin’ any better?”
“I think so. But I’m very bad.”
“Are you goin’ to stay here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Got any money?”
“Yes. Ninepence. Could you get me somethin’ to to drink?”
Stephen took twopence, went out, and speedily returned with a large mug of coffee; from his pocket he brought forth a lump of cake, which had cost a halfpenny. This, he thought, might tempt a sick appetite. His own breakfast he would take at the coffee-shop.
“Mother’ll get you anything else you want,” he said. “She knows herself generally first thing in the morning. Let her take back the mug; I had to leave threepence on it.”
So Stephen also went forth to his labour,—in his case, it may surely be said, the curse of curses. . . .
At this hour Pennyloaf bestirred herself
