In prison? Surely this could be nothing else. A long stone room lit by a single gas-jet burning low and blue. He saw that he was not alone. The whole room was spread with mattresses, on which were lying figures covered with gray blankets like his own. His neighbour, a man who snored heavily and clutched at his hair with his hands, gave a groan. This could not be a dream. Through the thudding of hammers in his head his consciousness painfully emerged. He remembered that he had come to Shrewsbury the night before, that he had slunk into a pub and drunk heavily. Where was he now? In a workhouse . . . a hospital . . . a doss-house . . . a jail? He could not guess. In any case it hurt his head to think. He tried to get his bearings. He had gone to bed in his boots. That was natural enough. He felt for his new watch. It was not there. He swore under his breath, not at the unknown people who had stolen it but at his evil luck. He supposed that they had stripped him of his money too—not that it mattered! He searched his left hand trouser pocket to see if anything remained. Not a penny! He laughed to himself. In the other pocket, to his astonishment, his fingers lighted on a single coin. How the devil had it got there? He fished it out, then propped himself on his elbow and held it up in the faint light. It was a new shilling. He stared at it; then spat on it for luck. So, tired and wretched beyond words, he turned over on his side, wrapped the blanket round his head, and went to sleep. * * * * * _Anacapri_; _March_, _1910_.