The footman appeared to be angry; Bertie slunk away. He crossed the road to the park; a gate was open; people were going in and out. He entered too. It looked quiet inside; perhaps there was grass to sit upon. He went up towards the Serpentine, and had not gone far when he came to a seat. On this he sat. Never was seat more welcome; it was ecstasy to rest. He was dimly conscious of what was going on; before he knew it he was fast asleep.
Time passed; still he slept. A perfect sleep untroubled by dreams. Some one else approached the seat, some one in the last stage of raggedness, so exhausted that he seemed hardly able to drag one foot behind the other. He, too, sat down; he, too, fell fast asleep.
Some one else approached,--a woman with a baby and a watercress basket. The baby was crying faintly; the woman tried to comfort it, speaking to in a droning monotone:
"I've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "I've nothing to give you, bairn! God help us all!"
A policeman came along. When he reached the seat he stopped, and flashed the bull's-eye lantern in the faces of the sleepers. The woman woke up instantly, perhaps used to such a visitation.
"I'm going, sir; I only sat down for a moment to rest awhile."
The baby began to cry again.
"I've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "I've nothing to give you, bairn! God help us all!"
It seemed to be a stereotyped form of speech. She got up, with the baby and her basket, and walked away, the baby crying as she went. The policeman remained behind, flashing his bull's-eye.
"Now then, this won't do, you know; wake up, you two."