“Well, why don't you say something? Nothing to say--it isn't bad enough that you've brought me into this--” “Come, Mr. Peter,” Stephen answered slowly. “That ain't fair. I never brought you into this. I've done my best.” “Oh, blame me, of course. That's natural enough. If it hadn't been for you--” Stephen came into the middle of the floor. “Come, Peter boy, yer tired. Yer don't know what yer saying. Best go to bed. Don't be saying anything that yer'd be regretting afterwards--” Peter's eyes that had been closed, suddenly opened, blazing. “Oh, damn you and your talk--I hate you. I wish I'd never seen you--a rotten kind of friendship--” his voice died off into muttering. Stephen went back to his bed. “This ain't fair, Mr. Peter,” he said in a low voice. “You'll be sorry afterwards. I ain't 'ad any very 'appy time myself these last weeks and now--” Their nerves were like hot, jangling wires. Suddenly into the midst of that bare room there had sprung between them hatred. They faced each other ... they could have leapt at one another's throats and fought.... Suddenly Peter gave a little cry that seemed to fill the room. His head fell forward-- “Oh, Stephen, Stephen, I'm so damned ill, I'm so damnably ill.” He caught for a moment at his chest as though he would tear his shirt open. Then he stumbled from the bed and lay in a heap on the floor with his hands spread out-- Stephen picked him up in his arms and carried him on to his bed. III The little doctor who attended to the wants of Bucket Lane was discovered at his supper. He was a dirty little man, with large dusty spectacles, a red nose and a bald head. He wore an old, faded velveteen jacket out of the pockets of which stuck innumerable papers. He was very often drunk and had a shrew of a wife who made the sober parts of his life a misery, but he was kind-hearted and generous and had a very real knowledge of his business. Mrs. Williams volubly could not conceal her concern at Peter's condition--“and 'im such a nice-spoken young genelman as I was saying only yesterday tea-time, there's nothin' I said, as I wouldn't be willin' to do for that there poor Mr. Westcott and that there poor Mr. Brant 'oo are as like two 'elpless children in their fightin' the world as ever I see and 'ow ever can I help 'em I said--” “Well, my good woman,” the little doctor finally interrupted, “you can help here and now by getting some hot water and the other things I've put down here.” When she was gone he turned slowly to Stephen who stood, the picture of despair, looking down upon Peter. “'E's goin' to die?” he asked. “That depends,” the little doctor answered. “The boy's been starved--ought never to have been allowed to get into this condition. Both of you hard up, I suppose?” “As 'ard up as we very well could be--” Stephen answered grimly. “Well--has he no friends?”