Philip thrust his hand into his pocket and brought up all the pocket’s contents. He took his keys and an unvalued trifle or two from the handful, and held the rest out towards his father. The old man shrunk from him with a terrible appeal and shamefaced gratitude which cut the son’s heart like a knife.
‘Where can I go to?’
‘Anywhere out of London. You are not—safe here. Go away. Write to me here.’ He thrust an envelope on which his name and address were written into the old man’s dirty trembling hand. ‘You must never come to see me. Promise me that.’
‘I promise,’ he said; and, thrusting the money and the envelope somewhere among his rags, stood silent for a while. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I acted very foolishly and very——’
Then his voice trailed away again.
‘God help you!’ said Philip with a choking voice.
‘You’ll shake hands, won’t you, Phil? ‘said the old man. Phil took the proffered hand. ‘It’s something,’ said Bommaney the elder, clinging to him, ‘to feel an honest man’s hand again, God bless you, Phil!—God bless you!’
Philip stood silent, and the old man, with another shame-stricken glance upon him, moved away. His son watched him for a second or two, as he slunk, coughing and shivering, along the gleaming pavement, and then turned and went his own way heavily.
Bommaney senior, discerning the welcome beacon of a public-house, shuffled eagerly towards it, hugging beneath his rags the money his son had given him.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Bommaney; if you please, sir.’ He started at the sound of a voice which had been familiar to him for years. ‘I should like a word with you, sir; if you please.’