"Not Muffles!"
"No—the Missus."
"When?"
"Last night. De boss is inside, all broke up."
I tiptoed across the hall and into the bar-room. He was sitting by a table, his head in his hands, his back toward me.
"Muffles, this is terrible! How did it happen?"
He straightened up and held out his hand, guiding me to a seat beside him. For some minutes he did not speak. Then he said, slowly, ignoring my question, the tears streaming down his cheeks:
"Dis ends me. I ain't no good widout de Missus. You thought maybe when ye were 'round that I was a runnin' things; you thought maybe it was me that was lookin' after de kids and keepin' 'em clean; you thought maybe when I got pinched and they come near jugging me that some of me pals got me clear—you don't know nothin' 'bout it. De Missus did that, like she done everything."
He stopped as if to get his breath, and put his head in his hands again—rocking himself to and fro like a man in great physical pain. I sat silent beside him. It is difficult to decide what to do or say to a man under such circumstances. His reference to some former arrest arose in my mind, and so, in a perfunctory way—more for something to say than for any purpose of prying into his former life—I asked:
"Was that the time the Pipe Contractor went bail for you?"