Peter mechanically, as one walking in a dream, crept into an omnibus. Mechanically he left it and mechanically climbed the stairs of the house in Bucket Lane. There were two fixed thoughts in his brain—one was that no one in the world had ever before been as thirsty as he was, and that he would willingly commit murder or any violence if thereby he might obtain drink, and the other thought was that Stephen was his enemy, that he hated Stephen because Stephen never left him alone and would not let him sleep—also in the back of his mind distantly, as though it concerned some one else, that he was very unhappy....
Stephen was sitting on one of the beds, looking in front of him. Peter moved forward heavily and sat on the other bed. They looked at one another.
“No luck,” said Stephen, “Armstrong's hadn't room for a man. Ricroft wouldn't see me. Peter, I'm thinking we'll have to take to the roads—”
Peter made no answer.
“Yer not lookin' a bit well, lad. I doubt if yer can stand much more of it.”
Peter looked across at him sullenly.
“Why can't you leave me alone?” he said. “You're always worrying—”
A slow flush mounted into Stephen's cheeks but he said nothing.
“Well, why don't you say something? Nothing to say—it isn't bad enough that you've brought me into this—”
“Come, Mr. Peter,” Stephen answered slowly. “That ain't fair. I never brought you into this. I've done my best.”