The room was stifling. Scarcely a breath of fresh air penetrated through its battered roof, still less through the tiny unopened window at the other end.
“We’ll get some breakfast to make you warm,” said Reginald. “This horrible place is enough to make any one feel sick.”
The boy got slowly out of bed.
“We ’ave got to earn some browns,” he said, “afore we can get any breakfast.”
He shivered still, and sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment. Then he gathered himself together with an effort and walked to the ladder. Reginald’s heart sank within him. The boy was not well. His face was flushed, his walk was uncertain, and his teeth chattered incessantly. It might be only the foul atmosphere of the room, or it might be something worse. And as he thought of it he too shivered, but not on account of the cold.
They descended the ladder, and for a little while the boy seemed revived by the fresh morning air. Reginald insisted on his taking their one coat, and the boy seemed to lack the energy to contest the matter. For an hour they wandered about the wharves, till at last Love stopped short and said,—
“Gov’nor, I don’t want no breakfast. I’ll just go back and—”
The sentence ended in a whimper, and but for Reginald’s arm round him he would have fallen.
Reginald knew now that his worst fears were realised. Love was ill, and it was only too easy to surmise what his illness was, especially when he called to mind the boy’s statement that he had been taking shelter in the infected lodging-house ten days ago, during his temporary exile from Shy Street.
He helped him back tenderly to the place—for other shelter they had none—and laid him in his bed. The boy protested that he was only tired, that his back and legs ached, and would soon be well. Reginald, inexperienced as he was, knew better, or rather worse.