The same old clothes, a bit greener with age, and the irregular bush of whiskers coloured almost in a rainbow array, but with a dirty grey predominant.
What a symbol from which to count the years that I had been away. A little more green to his clothes! A bit more grey in his matted beard!
He has that same stark look in his eyes that used to make me sick as a child. Everything exactly the same, only a bit more dilapidated.
No. There is a change. The dirty little mat for the unhealthy-looking pup with the watering eyes that used to be with him—that is gone. I would like to hear the story of the missing pup.
Did its passing make much difference to the lonely derelict? Was its ending a tragic one, dramatic, or had it just passed out naturally?
The old man is laboriously reading the same chapter from his old, greasy, and bethumbed embossed Bible. His lips move, but silently, as his fingers travel over the letters. I wonder if he gets comfort there? Or does he need comfort?
To me it is all too horrible. He is the personification of poverty at its worst, sunk in that inertia that comes of lost hope. It is too terrible.
VI.
THE HAUNTS OF MY CHILDHOOD
I jump into the automobile again and we drive along past Christ Church. There's Baxter Hall, where we used to see magic-lantern slides for a penny. The forerunner of the movie of to-day. I see significance in everything around me. You could get a cup of coffee and a piece of cake there and see the Crucifixion of Christ all at the same time.
We are passing the police station. A drear place to youth. Kennington Road is more intimate. It has grown beautiful in its decay. There is something fascinating about it.