“Wrong?” said a voice behind him; “why, of course! You've taken the wrong turn, old man.” He saw a policeman, with a red face shining through the darkness, talking to a strange old figure like some aged and dishevelled bird. “Thank you, constable,” the old man said, “as I've come wrong I'll take a rest.” Chewing his gums, he seemed to fear to take the liberty of sitting down. Shelton made room, and the old fellow took the vacant place. “You'll excuse me, sir, I'm sure,” he said in shaky tones, and snatching at his battered hat; “I see you was a gentleman”--and lovingly he dwelt upon the word--“would n't disturb you for the world. I'm not used to being out at night, and the seats do get so full. Old age must lean on something; you'll excuse me, sir, I 'm sure.” “Of course,” said Shelton gently. “I'm a respectable old man, really,” said his neighbour; “I never took a liberty in my life. But at my age, sir, you get nervous; standin' about the streets as I been this last week, an' sleepin' in them doss-houses--Oh, they're dreadful rough places--a dreadful rough lot there! Yes,” the old man said again, as Shelton turned to look at him, struck by the real self-pity in his voice, “dreadful rough places!” A movement of his head, which grew on a lean, plucked neck like that of an old fowl, had brought his face into the light. It was long, and run to seed, and had a large, red nose; its thin, colourless lips were twisted sideways and apart, showing his semi-toothless mouth; and his eyes had that aged look of eyes in which all colour runs into a thin rim round the iris; and over them kept coming films like the films over parrots' eyes. He was, or should have been, clean-shaven. His hair--for he had taken off his hat was thick and lank, of dusty colour, as far as could be seen, without a speck of grey, and parted very beautifully just about the middle. “I can put up with that,” he said again. “I never interferes with nobody, and nobody don't interfere with me; but what frightens me”--his voice grew steady, as if too terrified to shake, “is never knowin' day to day what 's to become of yer. Oh, that 'a dreadful, that is!” “It must be,” answered Shelton. “Ah! it is,” the old man said; “and the winter cumin' on. I never was much used to open air, bein' in domestic service all my life; but I don't mind that so long as I can see my way to earn a livin'. Well, thank God! I've got a job at last”; and his voice grew cheerful suddenly. “Sellin' papers is not what I been accustomed to; but the Westminister, they tell me that's one of the most respectable of the evenin' papers--in fact, I know it is. So now I'm sure to get on; I try hard.” “How did you get the job?” asked Shelton. “I 've got my character,” the old fellow said, making a gesture with a skinny hand towards his chest, as if it were there he kept his character.