While Abner dressed, his father was prowling from room to room letting the tallow from the candle drip down the front of his trousers, and shouting at the boy to hurry up from time to time. In a few minutes Abner was ready and had crossed the patch of waste ground that lay between the terrace and the Stourton Road. This highway was more desolate than he had ever seen it before. In some of the upper windows subdued gas-jets were burning, but most of them took on the gray light of a moon that could not be seen. He was halfway into Halesby before he really woke. Then, in the cool night air, he forgot his grudge against his father for waking him. Even the foul dust of the Stourton Road smelt sweet. He had never felt fitter nor more awake in his life. As he reached Mrs Moseley’s door Tiger began to bark. He heard the voice of Mrs Moseley trying to soothe the beast. Then he picked up some pebbles and threw them against the window panes, and a moment later the old woman looked out, Tiger scrambling into the window beside her. ‘Our father wants you,’ he called. ‘And I’ve got to go for the doctor.’ ‘Dear, dear,’ said Mrs Moseley, ‘I knew it would happen like this. I wouldn’t disappoint your father for anything . . . that I wouldn’t!’ ‘Don’t you take no notice of it!’ Abner urged. ‘Don’t you come! I’ll tell ’em the doctor won’t let you.’ She shook her head solemnly and disappeared from the window. Abner, exhilarated with the night air, ran on to the doctor’s house. This gentleman appeared to resent his call. Abner was told to wait below so that he might carry the bag. He stood there in a garden heavy with the perfume of stocks. In the meadows along the Stour a corncrake was calling. He wondered what kind of bird it was, and whether it was easy to kill. He didn’t mind how long the doctor kept him waiting. On the way back to Hackett’s Cottages Dr Moorhouse spoke very little. He asked Abner the kind of questions he usually put to young people, and grunted in reply, as if he hadn’t heard what Abner said. ‘Are you John Fellows’s son?’ he asked. And then: ‘How old are you?’ When Abner said that he was going in seventeen, he grunted. It scarcely seemed possible that more than sixteen years had passed since, in the same small house of Hackett’s Cottages, he had ushered this tall youth into the world. It filled him with a kind of discontent to realise that for all these years he had been moving in the same groove, in a vicious circle that had brought him back once more to this identical point. Only it hadn’t been so hard to turn out at night sixteen years ago. A dog’s life! People didn’t realise it. There was Ingleby, the chemist, a sensible man in most things, fool enough to make his only son a doctor!