‘I think so. But I’m very bad.’
‘Are you goin’ to stay here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Got any money?’
‘Yes. Ninepence. Could you get me something to drink?’
Stephen took twopence, went out, and speedily returned with a large mug of coffee; from his pocket he brought forth a lump of cake, which had cost a halfpenny. This, he thought, might tempt a sick appetite. His own breakfast he would take at the coffee-shop.
‘Mother’ll get you anything else you want,’ he said. ‘She knows herself generally first thing in the morning. Let her take back the mug; I had to leave threepence on it.’
So Stephen also went forth to his labour—in this case, it may surely be said, the curse of curses. . . .
At this hour Pennyloaf bestirred herself after a night of weeping. Last evening the police had visited her room, and had searched it thoroughly. The revelation amazed her; she would not believe the charge that was made against her husband. She became angry with Mrs. Griffin when that practical woman said she was not at all surprised. Utterly gone was her resentment of Bob’s latest cruelty. His failure to return home seemed to prove that he had been arrested, and she could think of nothing but the punishment that awaited him.
‘It’s penal servitude,’ remarked Mrs. Griffin, frankly. ‘Five, or p’r’aps ten years. I’ve heard of ’em gettin’ sent for life.’