‘You needn’t be afraid o’ the coals. Mother goes round the streets after the coal-carts, an’ you wouldn’t believe what a lot she picks up some days. You see, we’re neither of us in the ’ouse very often; we don’t burn much.’ He lit a fire, and Bob dragged himself near to it. In the meantime the quietness of the house was suffering a disturbance familiar to its denizens. Mr. Hope—you remember Mr. Hope?—had just returned from an evening at the public-house, and was bent on sustaining his reputation for unmatched vigour of language. He was quarrelling with his wife and daughters; their high notes of vituperation mingled in the most effective way with his manly thunder. To hear Mr. Hope’s expressions, a stranger would have imagined him on the very point of savagely murdering all his family. Another voice became audible. It was that of Ned Higgs, who had opened his door to bellow curses at the disturbers of his rest. ‘They’ll be wakin’ mother,’ said Stephen. ‘There, I knew they would.’ Mrs. Candy stirred, and, after a few vain efforts to raise herself, started up suddenly. She fixed her eyes on the fire, which was just beginning to blaze, and uttered a dreadful cry, a shriek of mad terror. ‘O God!’ groaned her son. ‘I hope it ain’t goin’ to be one of her bad nights. Mother, mother! what’s wrong with you? See, come to the fire an’ warm yourself, mother.’ She repeated the cry two or three times, but with less violence; then, as though exhausted, she fell face downwards, her arms folded about her head. The moaning which Bob had heard earlier in the evening recommenced. Happily, it was not to be one of her bad nights. Fits of the horrors only came upon her twice before morning. Towards one o’clock Stephen had sunk into a sleep which scarcely any conceivable uproar could have broken; he lay with his head on his right arm, his legs stretched out at full length; his breathing was light. Bob was much later in getting rest. As often as he slumbered for an instant, the terrible image of his fear rose manifest before him; he saw himself in the clutch of his hunters, just like Jack Bartley, and woke to lie quivering. Must not that be the end of it, sooner or later? Might he not as well give himself up to-morrow? But the thought of punishment such as his crime receives was unendurable. It haunted him in nightmare when sheer exhaustion had at length weighed down his eyelids. Long before daybreak he was conscious again, tormented with thirst and his head aching woefully. Someone had risen in the room above, and was tramping about in heavy boots. The noise seemed to disturb Mrs. Candy; she cried out in her sleep. In a few minutes the early riser came forth and began to descend the stairs; he was going to his work. A little while, and in the court below a voice shouted, ‘Bill Bill!’ Another worker being called, doubtless.