Ocky sat down on a box and drew Peter to his knee in the darkness, putting his arm about him. “I’ve never been loved like that; if I had I’d have been a better man. If I let you do this I want to make a promise. Whether I’m caught or not, for your sake I’m going to be good in the future.—You don’t know what I am—how foolish and bad. I was drunk last night—I got drunk to forget my terror. Do you think I’m worth doing wrong for, chappie?”
Peter drew the unshaven face down to his shoulder. “You poor, poor uncle! It wouldn’t be doing wrong if you became good because I stole, now would it?—You’ll let me do it?”
They stood up. “What you got there?”
“Food. We must hurry. If we don’t they’ll find out.—And here’s some money.”
“Did you steal that?”
“I saved it for Christmas. I want you to take care of it. Now, here’s the way we go upstairs.”
Peter tried to laugh. He showed his uncle where to find a foothold in the wall and, by pushing and whispering instructions, got him through the trap-door into the room overhead. Then he handed up the results of his foraging and followed.
The loft was big and cheerless, thick with dust and hung with cobwebs. Across the roof went rafters; where they joined the wall sparrows had built their nests. Over the stalls were holes in the floor through which hay could be pitch-forked down. There was only one window at the far end, which looked out into the garden; several of the panes were broken and let in the wintry air.
Ocky shivered. For comfort he fell back on his pipe and began to fumble in his pocket for a match. When he struck it Peter saw for the first time what he was doing. He snatched it from him and blew it out. “But you mustn’t do that.”
“Why not?”