Well, why not go into the little inn and have a drink? Then he would go back to Bucket Lane and lie down and never wake again. For he was so tired that he had never known before what it was to be tired at all--only Stephen would not let him sleep.... Stephen was cruel and would not let him alone. No one would let him alone--the world had treated him very evilly--what did he owe the world? He would go now and surrender to these things, these things that were stronger than he ... he would drink and he would sleep and that should be the end of everything ... the blessed end. He swayed a little on his feet and he put his hand to his forehead in order that he might think more clearly. Some one had said once to him a great many years ago--“It is not life that matters but the Courage that you bring to it.” Well, that was untrue. He would like to tell the man who had said that that he was a liar. No Courage could be enough if life chose to be hard. No Courage-- Nevertheless, the thought of somewhere a long time ago when some one had said that to him, slowly filled his tired brain with a distaste for the little inn with the bow-windows. He would not go there yet, just a little while and then he would go. Almost dreaming--certainly seeing nothing about him that he recognised--he stumbled confusedly down to the Embankment. Here there was at any rate air, he drew his shabby blue coat more closely about him and sat down on a wooden bench, in company with a lady who wore a large damaged feather in her hat and a red stained blouse with torn lace upon it and a skirt of a bright and tarnished blue. The lady gave him a nod. “Cheer, chucky,” she said. Peter made no reply. “Down on your uppers? My word, you look bad--Poor Kid! Well, never say die--strike me blimy but there's a good day coming--” “I sat here once before,” said Peter, leaning forward and addressing her very earnestly, “and it was the first time that I ever heard the noise that London makes. If you listen you can hear it now--London's a beast you know--”