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"
Lemme see that paper," said Mr. Polly, and took it with the feeling
of a man who takes a nauseating medicine, and scrutinised his cousin's
neat figures with listless eyes.
"
Well," said Johnson, rising and stretching. "Bed! Better sleep on it,
O' Man."
"
Right O," said Mr. Polly without moving, but indeed he could as well
have slept upon a bed of thorns.
He had a dreadful night. It was like the end of the annual holiday,
only infinitely worse. It was like a newly arrived prisoner's backward
glance at the trees and heather through the prison gates. He had to go
back to harness, and he was as fitted to go in harness as the ordinary
domestic cat. All night, Fate, with the quiet complacency, and indeed
at times the very face and gestures of Johnson, guided him towards
that undesired establishment at the corner near the station. "Oh
Lord!" he cried, "I'd rather go back to cribs. I should keep my
money anyhow." Fate never winced.
"
Run away to sea," whispered Mr. Polly, but he knew he wasn't man
enough.
"Cut my blooming throat."
Some braver strain urged him to think of Miriam, and for a little
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