He went downstairs, feeling suddenly smartingly sorry for his mother as she waddled upwards to this drunkard’s bed. He saw that her lot was a hard one.
11
The passage was in darkness, and Tom did not see, but felt, the side door swing open, with a damp drench of wind from the yard. There was a grey mist in the passage. The next minute a white stick-like thing flew out of it, suddenly like the wind, and then bumped into Tom, with the unexpected contact of warm flesh against his hands, and “Oo-er,” in Harry’s voice.
“Harry....”
“Oh, that’s you, Tom? Lemme git up and fetch some cloathes.”
“But where’s those as you went out in?”
“I dunno. I’ll tell you afterwards, but I’m coald, and I want my supper.”
The slow, facile anger of his type went tingling into Tom’s speech and hands.
“Supper! I’m hemmed if you git so much as a bite. Tell me this wunst where you left your cloathes or I’ll knock your head off, surelye.”