Mr. Podmore seems to be not only too tired to go, but too tired to come. When he has slammed the street-door, he leans against it, and dozes. He has no need to close his eyes, for they were closed when he opened the door. He remains in this position for a few moments, then shuffles along the passage. Coming to the stairs, he sits upon the lowest step, and yields to the soft-sleeping murmurs which are overpowering him. Rousing himself, he sets himself in motion again, and begins to ascend the stairs, dragging his feet wearily, and falls asleep again before he arrives at the landing. In this way he reaches the old man, who is waiting to speak to him, and who is already tormented by the fear that this is not one of Mr. Podmore's bright nights.
Mr. Podmore is followed by a dog--a rough, yellow Scotch terrier--every hair in whose body bristles with watchfulness. It is a small dog, viciously faithful, and as it waits patiently and intelligently upon its master's movements, observing every motion with its watchful grey eyes, it declares clearly, "Here am I, wide awake, and armed at all points. Touch him if you dare with any but a friendly hand! Address him at your peril in any but a friendly voice! I'm on guard, faithful and true, and I can distinguish friends from foes. I can smell them." No signs of impatience are visible in the dog's demeanour at Mr. Podmore's slow progress upstairs. It follows its master's footsteps with serious attention, watches while he dozes, pricks up its ears as he sets himself in motion again, and now stands on the landing before the old man with its nose close to its master's legs.
"Good-evening, Mr. Podmore," says the old man.
"Good-evening."
He blinks at the light which the old man holds in his hands, closes his eyes, and shows so decided a disposition to lean against nothing, that the old man has to save him from falling. This arouses him for a moment, and seeing the door open, he staggers into the room, and sinks into a chair. He is a well-made man, thirty years of age perhaps, and belongs unmistakably to the working classes--to one of the most perilously-worked of the working-classes. He carries a blue-cotton pocket-handkerchief containing an empty basin and plate which has held his dinner, and his hands and face are black with dirt. As he sits in the chair, having fallen rather heavily into it, the dog stretches itself under the seat, with its nose between its master's legs. You can see nothing of it but the tip of its nose and its two watchful grey eyes, steady and clear and humid, on the look-out for squalls.
"Where's my wife?" murmurs Mr. Podmore drowsily.
"She asked me to tell you," replies the old man, regarding Mr. Podmore doubtfully, "that she's gone to see her sister's child, who is ill. She'll be back soon."
"All right," says Mr. Podmore, upon whose ears the old man's gentle voice falls so soothingly that the soft sleep-murmurs take more complete possession of him; he sways forward in his chair, and is on the point of falling to the ground on his face, when he recovers himself by a sudden convulsive movement.
"Hush!" says the old man, casting an apprehensive look towards the bed. "Don't make a noise."
"Never fear," murmurs Mr. Podmore. "I have enough--noise--every day--to last me--my life-time."