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He reinforced his statement by objurgation, watching the effect of each oath with a wary eye.

“F’r instance. You’re tall. Long arms. You get a longer reach than any one in the brasted vault. Gobblimey, but I thought I’d got a Tough on. ‘Stead of which … ‘Scuse me. I wouldn’t have ‘it you if I’d known. It’s like fighting sacks. ‘Tisn’ right. Y’r arms seemed ‘ung on ‘ooks. Reg’lar–‘ung on ‘ooks. There!”

Denton stared, and then surprised and hurt his battered chin by a sudden laugh. Bitter tears came into his eyes.

“Go on,” he said.

The swart man reverted to his formula. He was good enough to say he liked the look of Denton, thought he had stood up “amazing plucky. On’y pluck ain’t no good–ain’t no brasted good–if you don’t ‘old your ‘ands.

“Whad I was going to say was this,” he said. “Lemme show you ‘ow to scrap. Jest lemme. You’re ig’nant, you ain’t no class; but you might be a very decent scrapper–very decent. Shown. That’s what I meant to say.”

Denton hesitated. “But–” he said, “I can’t give you anything–“

“That’s the ge’man all over,” said the swart man. “Who arst you to?”

“But your time?”

“If you don’t get learnt scrapping you’ll get killed,–don’t you make no bones of that.”

Denton thought. “I don’t know,” he said.

He looked at the face beside him, and all its native coarseness shouted at him. He felt a quick revulsion from his transient friendliness. It seemed to him incredible that it should be necessary for him to be indebted to such a creature.

“The chaps are always scrapping,” said the swart man. “Always. And, of course–if one gets waxy and ‘its you vital …”

“By God!” cried Denton; “I wish one would.”

“Of course, if you feel like that–“

“You don’t understand.”

“P’raps I don’t,” said the swart man; and lapsed into a fuming silence.

When he spoke again his voice was less friendly, and he prodded Denton by way of address. “Look see!” he said: “are you going to let me show you ‘ow to scrap?”

“It’s tremendously kind of you,” said Denton; “but–“

There was a pause. The swart man rose and bent over Denton.

“Too much ge’man,” he said–“eh? I got a red face…. By gosh! you are–you are a brasted fool!”

He turned away, and instantly Denton realised the truth of this remark.

The swart man descended with dignity to a cross way, and Denton, after a momentary impulse to pursuit, remained on the platform. For a time the things that had happened filled his mind. In one day his graceful system of resignation had been shattered beyond hope. Brute force, the final, the fundamental, had thrust its face through all his explanations and glosses and consolations and grinned enigmatically. Though he was hungry and tired, he did not go on directly to the Labour Hotel, where he would meet Elizabeth. He found he was beginning to think, he wanted very greatly to think; and so, wrapped in a monstrous cloud of meditation, he went the circuit of the city on his moving platform twice. You figure him, tearing through the glaring, thunder-voiced city at a pace of fifty miles an hour, the city upon the planet that spins along its chartless path through space many thousands of miles an hour, funking most terribly, and trying to understand why the heart and will in him should suffer and keep alive.

When at last he came to Elizabeth, she was white and anxious. He might have noted she was in trouble, had it not been for his own preoccupation. He feared most that she would desire to know every detail of his indignities, that she would be sympathetic or indignant. He saw her eyebrows rise at the sight of him.

“I’ve had rough handling,” he said, and gasped. “It’s too fresh–too hot. I don’t want to talk about it.” He sat down with an unavoidable air of sullenness.

She stared at him in astonishment, and as she read something of the significant hieroglyphic of his battered face, her lips whitened. Her hand–it was thinner now than in the days of their prosperity, and her first finger was a little altered by the metal punching she did–clenched convulsively. “This horrible world!” she said, and said no more.