“I mean my china and glass, sir,” said the man, “I shan’t have a whole thing left.”
“Never mind that if our lives are saved.”
“No, sir, I don’t; but will they be saved?”
“Oh, yes, I hope so.”
“But it’s so dark, sir. Oh, why did I leave London with its safety and its gas? Why am I here, sir? I want to know why I am here?”
“Because you were not a coward,” said Lane.
“Eh? You’re not joking me, sir.”
“No, I am serious.”
“Then thank you, sir. You’re quite right. That’s it, I’m not a coward, and I won’t say another word.”
The man nodded and smiled and went about his work, while Lane turned to a young man of seven or eight and twenty, who sat evidently suffering and looking pale and strange in the sickly light.