The man with the bag shuddered as he passed these glittering dens, and felt the hot breath of the “drink beast” on his face. His eyes seemed to fling back the glare of the lights with a fierceness that was not far from fanatical disgust. Possibly there was an element of mockery for him in the coarse chattering and the braying laughter. His fingers contracted about the handle of his bag. He seemed to hurry with the air of some grim wayfarer in the Pilgrim’s Progress, escaping from sights and sounds poignant with the prophecies of despair.
In Cinder Lane, Murchison found the door of No. 10 half open, and a man sitting reading in his shirt-sleeves in the little front parlor. A significant whimpering came from the room above, the first faint crying of a new-born child. A flash of relief passed across Murchison’s face. The sound reprieved him from a possible night-watch in the stuffy heat of a room that smelled of paraffin, stale beer, and unwashed clothes.
“All over, I think.”
The man with the paper rose, removed his clay pipe, jerked back his chair, and grinned.
“Jus’ so, doctor.”
“So much the better for every one.”
“Lord love you, doctor, I feel as though I’d bin sittin’ on ’ot coals for ten mortal hours.”
Murchison swung his overcoat over a chair, and climbed the stairs, a half open door showing a band of light blotted by the shadow of a woman’s head. The proud father returned to his pipe and to his paper and the mug of beer on the table at his elbow. He looked a mere lad, sickly, beardless, hatchet-faced, with high shoulders and no chest. Coal-dust seemed to have been grimed into the pores of his greasy and wax-white skin.
The lad’s smirk was a quaint mixture of pride and sheepishness when Murchison came down the stairs half an hour later and congratulated him on the possession of a son.
“Glad it’s over, doctor. ’Ave a drop?” and he reached for a clean glass.