“Of course, some days,” he said, “I can hardly get my breath at all, and that’s against me.”
It would be, as he said, against him; and, encouraged by a look, he added:
“I know I kep’ on too long with my profession; but you know what it is—when you’ve been brought up to a job you get to depend on it; to give it up is like chuckin’ of yourself away. And that’s what I’ve found—people don’t want such as I am now.”
And for a full half-minute we stood looking at each other; his bitten, discoloured lips twitched twice, and a faint pink warmed the paper whiteness of his cheeks.
“Up at the hospital they don’t seem to take no interest in my case any more; seems as if they thought it ’opeless.”
Unconscious that he had gone beneath the depths of human nature, shown up the human passion for definite success, illustrated human worship of the idol strength, and human scorn for what is weak—he said these simple words in an almost injured tone. Recovery might be impossible, people did not want such as he was now; but he was still interested in himself, still loth to find himself a useless bee ejected from the hive. His lashless eyes seemed saying: “I believe I could get well—I do believe I could!”
Yet he was not unreasonable, for he went on:
“When I first went there they took a lot of interest in me—but that’s a year ago. Perhaps I’ve disappointed them!”
Perhaps he had!
“They kept on telling me to take plenty of fresh air. Where I live, of course, there’s not so very much about, but I take all I can. Not bein’ able to get a job, I’ve been sitting in the Park. I take the child—they tell me not to have her too near me in the house.”