“There's a splendid drain just here,” his guide resumed; “the people are dying like flies of typhoid in those three houses”; and under the first light he turned his grave, cherubic face to indicate the houses. “If we were in the East End, I could show you other places quite as good. There's a coffee-stall keeper in one that knows all the thieves in London; he 's a splendid type, but,” he added, looking a little anxiously at Shelton, “it might n't be safe for you. With me it's different; they 're beginning to know me. I've nothing to take, you see.”
“I'm afraid it can't be to-night,” said Shelton; “I must get back.”
“Do you mind if I walk with you? It's so jolly now the stars are out.”
“Delighted,” said Shelton; “do you often go to that club?”
His companion raised his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair.
“They 're rather too high-class for me,” he said. “I like to go where you can see people eat—school treats, or somewhere in the country. It does one good to see them eat. They don't get enough, you see, as a rule, to make bone; it's all used up for brain and muscle. There are some places in the winter where they give them bread and cocoa; I like to go to those.”
“I went once,” said Shelton, “but I felt ashamed for putting my nose in.”
“Oh, they don't mind; most of them are half-dead with cold, you know. You see splendid types; lots of dipsomaniacs . . . . It 's useful to me,” he went on as they passed a police-station, “to walk about at night; one can take so much more notice. I had a jolly night last week in Hyde Park; a chance to study human nature there.”
“And do you find it interesting?” asked Shelton.
His companion smiled.