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I put my overcoat on the sofa, picked up the candle and glanced at the books in the corner: Lavater’s indestructible work, a paper-covered Whitaker, the Licensed Victuallers’ Almanac, Johnny Ludlow, the illustrated catalogue of the Exhibition of 1856, Cruden’s Concordance, and seven or eight volumes of Knight’s Penny Encyclopaedia. While I was poring on these titles I heard movements overhead–previously there had been no sound whatever–and with guilty haste I restored the candle to the table and placed myself negligently in front of the fire.

“Now don’t let me see ye up here any more till I fetch ye!” said a woman’s distant voice–not crossly, but firmly. And then, crossly: “Be off with ye now!”

Reluctant boots on the stairs! Jos Myatt entered to me. He did not speak at first; nor did I. He avoided my glance. He was still wearing the cut-away coat with the line of mud up the back. I took out my watch, not for the sake of information, but from mere nervousness, and the sight of the watch reminded me that it would be prudent to wind it up.

“Better not forget that,” I said, winding it.

“Ay!” said he, gloomily. “It’s a tip.” And he wound up his watch; a large, thick, golden one.

This watch-winding established a basis of intercourse between us.

“I hope everything is going on all right,” I murmured.

“What dun ye say?” he asked.

“I say I hope everything is going on all right,” I repeated louder, and jerked my head in the direction of the stairs, to indicate the place from which he had come.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as if surprised. “Now what’ll ye have, mester?” He stood waiting. “It’s my call to-night.”

I explained to him that I never took alcohol. It was not quite true, but it was as true as most general propositions are.

“Neither me!” he said shortly, after a pause.

“You’re a teetotaller too?” I showed a little involuntary astonishment.

He put forward his chin.

“What do you think?” he said confidentially and scornfully. It was precisely as if he had said: “Do you think that anybody but a born ass would not be a teetotaller, in my position?”

I sat down on a chair.

“Take th’ squab, mester,” he said, pointing to the sofa. I took it.

He picked up the candle; then dropped it, and lighted a lamp which was on the mantelpiece between his vases of blue glass. His movements were very slow, hesitating and clumsy. Blowing out the candle, which smoked for a long time, he went with the lamp to the bookcase. As the key of the bookcase was in his right pocket and the lamp in his right hand he had to change the lamp, cautiously, from hand to hand. When he opened the cupboard I saw a rich gleam of silver from every shelf of it except the lowest, and I could distinguish the forms of ceremonial cups with pedestals and immense handles.

“I suppose these are your pots?” I said.

“Ay!”

He displayed to me the fruits of his manifold victories. I could see him straining along endless cinder-paths and highroads under hot suns, his great knees going up and down like treadles amid the plaudits and howls of vast populations. And all that now remained of that glory was these debased and vicious shapes, magnificently useless, grossly ugly, with their inscriptions lost in a mess of flourishes.

“Ay!” he said again, when I had fingered the last of them.

“A very fine show indeed!” I said, resuming the sofa.

He took a penny bottle of ink and a pen out of the bookcase, and also, from the lowest shelf, a bag of money and a long narrow account book. Then he sat down at the table and commenced accountancy. It was clear that he regarded his task as formidable and complex. To see him reckoning the coins, manipulating the pen, splashing the ink, scratching the page; to hear him whispering consecutive numbers aloud, and muttering mysterious anathemas against the untamable naughtiness of figures–all this was painful, and with the painfulness of a simple exercise rendered difficult by inaptitude and incompetence. I wanted to jump up and cry to him: “Get out of the way, man, and let me do it for you! I can do it while you are wiping hairs from your pen on your sleeve.” I was sorry for him because he was ridiculous–and even more grotesque than ridiculous. I felt, quite acutely, that it was a shame that he could not be for ever the central figure of a field of mud, kicking a ball into long and grandiose parabolas higher than gasometers, or breaking an occasional leg, surrounded by the violent affection of hearts whose melting-point was the exclamation, “Good old Jos!” I felt that if he must repose his existence ought to have been so contrived that he could repose in impassive and senseless dignity, like a mountain watching the flight of time. The conception of him tracing symbols in a ledger, counting shillings and sixpences, descending to arithmetic, and suffering those humiliations which are the invariable preliminaries to legitimate fatherhood, was shocking to a nice taste for harmonious fitness…. What, this precious and terrific organism, this slave with a specialty–whom distant towns had once been anxious to buy at the prodigious figure of five hundred pounds–obliged to sit in a mean chamber and wait silently while the woman of his choice encountered the supreme peril! And he would “soon be past football!” He was “thirty-four if a day!” It was the verge of senility! He was no longer worth five hundred pounds. Perhaps even now this jointed merchandise was only worth two hundred pounds! And “they”–the shadowy directors, who could not kick a ball fifty feet and who would probably turn sick if they broke a leg–“they” paid him four pounds a week for being the hero of a quarter of a million of people! He was the chief magnet to draw fifteen thousand sixpences and shillings of a Saturday afternoon into a company’s cash box, and here he sat splitting his head over fewer sixpences and shillings than would fill a half-pint pot! Jos, you ought in justice to have been Jose, with a thin red necktie down your breast (instead of a line of mud up your back), and embroidered breeches on those miraculous legs, and an income of a quarter of a million pesetas, and the languishing acquiescence of innumerable mantillas. Every moment you were getting older and stiffer; every moment was bringing nearer the moment when young men would reply curtly to their doddering elders: “Jos Myatt–who was ‘e?”