It was a snowy midnight; by the light of the street lamp he who made this strange request looked ragged and distraught.
“They lives in Gold Street, 22; go an’ see ’em, gentleman. Mrs. James White—my poor mother starvin’.”
In England no one starves.
“Go an’ see ’em, gentleman; it’s the book o’ truth I’m tellin’ you. They’re old; they got no food, they got nothin’.”
“Very well, I will.”
He thrust out his face to see whether he might trust his ears, then without warning turned and ran on down the road. His shape vanished into darkness, whence it came....
Gold Street with its small grey houses whose doors are always open, and its garbage-littered gutters, where children are at play.
“Mr. and Mrs. James White?”
“First floor back. Mr. White—wanted!”
My dog sniffed at the passage wall, that smelled unlike the walls belonging to him, and presently an old man came. He looked at us distrustfully, and we looked back distrustfully at him.