He paused as if he would leave his companion to make his way on alone. He was obviously dissatisfied and uneasy.
“Won’t you come to the station with me?” Christopher 239 asked, and as they walked he began to speak slowly and hesitatingly, as one who must choose from words that were on the verge of overflowing. “I was brought up in Lambeth, Mr. Fulner. I am used to poverty and bad sights. Don’t go on thinking I don’t care. These people earn fortunes beside those I have known, but in all London I’ve never seen anything so horrible as this, nothing so hideous, sordid—” he stopped with a gasp, “the women—the children—the lost desire—the ugliness.”
They walked on silently. Presently he spoke again.
“You are a plucky man, Mr. Fulner. I couldn’t face it.”
“I’ve no choice. I don’t know why I showed you it, except I thought you were coming and I wanted your help.”
“Are there many who care?”
“No. It’s too precarious. Mr. Masters doesn’t approve of fools. Mind you, the men have no grievances inside the works. The unions have no chance now. It’s fair to remember that.”
“Is it the same everywhere?”
“The System’s the same. I know nothing about the other works but that. There’s the train: we must hurry.”
“What do you want for your club?” Christopher asked as he entered his carriage.