“Come along, then; I’ll show you the way.”
“Ve’y good, we can walk, if you understand my meaning.” And the man stood up, the dog and the woman also. All three passed unsteadily out.
The man walked first, then the woman, then the dog, wavering into the dusky mist. Ivor followed, praying that they might meet no traffic. The man’s voice broke the silence in front.
“Hen’y Ivor!” Ivor closed up nervously.
“Hen’y Ivor! I see ’m sayin’ to ’mself: ‘What’ll they move on for!’ I see him, if y’ understand my meaning. Wha’sh he good for—Hen’y Ivor—only writer o’ books. Is he any better than me—no! Not ’s good, if you f-follow me. I see ’m thinkin’: ‘How can I get rid of ’m?’” He stood still suddenly, almost on Ivor’s toes. “Where’s dog—carry th’ dog—get ’is feet wet.”
The woman stooped unsteadily, picked up the dog, and they both wavered on again. Ivor walked alongside now, grim and apprehensive. The man seemed to have become aware of him.
“Mist’ Ivor,” he said. “Thought so—I’m not tight—can’t say better than that, can I?—I’m not writer of books like you—not plutocrat, if you understand my meaning. Want to ask you question: What would you do if you was me?”
There was silence, but for the slip-slippering of the woman’s feet behind.
“I don’ blame you,” said the man, whose speech was getting thicker; “you can’t help being a plutothrist. But whash the good of anything for me, except ob-oblivion, if you follow me?”
A faint radiance shone through the mist. The station building loomed suddenly quite close. Ivor steered towards it.