They went to one of the smaller, more remote Digger’s Clubs. It consisted only of one large room, meeting room and gymnastics hall in turn, and a couple of small rooms, one belonging to the secretary and the head, and the other a sort of little kitchen with a sink and a stove. The one-armed caretaker was in attendance, but nobody else was there. Jaz and Somers went into the secretary’s room, and Jaz made Richard lie down on the sofa.
“Stay here,” he said, “while I go and have a look round.”
Richard looked at him. He was feeling very sick: perhaps the bang over the head. Yet he wanted to go back into the town, into the melee. He felt he would even die if he did so. But then why not die? Why stay outside the row? He had always been outside the world’s affairs.
“I’ll come with you again,” he said.
“No, I don’t want you,” snapped Jaz. “I have a few of my own things to attend to.”
“Then I’ll go by myself,” said Richard.
“If I were you I wouldn’t,” said Jaz.
And Richard sat back feeling very sick, and confused. But such a pain in his stomach, as if something were torn there. And he could not keep still—he wanted to do something.
Jaz poured out a measure of whiskey for himself and one for Richard. Then he went out, saying:
“You’d best stay here till I come back, Mr Somers. I shan’t be very long.”