“Ovid is one of the chief among the Roman authors,” said the boy. For the moment everything else had yielded to the astonishment he felt that all these imposing, austere, and strikingly-dressed street-persons should not know who Ovid was.
“Get the directory, Harby,” said the bald-headed man, “and look up the year in which Hovvid was born. You were right, Gravener; he is a bit touched.”
“Coorse I’m right,” said Gravener. “Anybody with ’alf a heye can see that.”
“Ovid was born in the year 43 before Christ,” said the boy. “The number of the shop of my father is forty-three.”
“Then why couldn’t you say so at first, my lad, and save all this parley?” said the bald-headed man sternly. “What’s in Number One, Harby?”
“A drunk and incapable, and a petty larceny.”
“Better put him in there for to-night.”
The boy was led into a room somewhat similar to that in which his clothes had been taken off. But this apartment seemed not only larger and more cheerless, but also very much darker. The only means by which daylight could get in was through a narrow window high up in the wall, and this was barred with iron. The few beams that were able to struggle through seemed merely to render everything malign and hideous. The boy, who from his first hour in the world had had an overpowering horror of the darkness, shuddered in every vein when he discovered that he was alone, and irrevocably committed to it for a nameless term. After the first trance of his terror had passed he was able to discern that a settle ran along the side of the wall. Hardly daring to move, he crept towards it. As he did so he stumbled over something. It was warm and soft. Something alive was lying on the floor. It was a shapeless mass. He could hear it breathing.
He sank on to the settle at the side of the wall. He was inert and stupefied. Great cold beads began to roll from his cheeks. He could see and comprehend nothing. Under the dominion of his terror he began to wish for death.
Quite suddenly a voice came out of the darkness.