em an almost intolerable
imprisonment in his little room. He could go to a public-house and dine off
a sausage and potato. But at that moment his attention was caught by black
letters on a dun, yellowish ground: 'Lockhart's Cocoa Rooms.' Not having
breakfasted, he decided to have a cup of cocoa and a roll.

It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of grey-blue
paint. Under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc urns always
steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. The seats were like
those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of some omnibuses.
Each was made to hold two persons, and the table between them was large
enough for four plates and four pairs of hands. A few hollow-chested men,
the pale vagrants of civilisation, drowsed in the corners. They had been
hunted through the night by the policeman, and had come in for something
hot. Hubert noted the worn frock-coats, and the miserable arms coming out
of shirtless sleeves. One looked up inquiringly, and Hubert thought how
slight had become the line that divided him from the outcast. A
serving-maid collected the plates, knives and forks, when the customers
left, and carried them back to the great zinc counter.

Impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and took
the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the customer to
pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table at which he
chose to eat. Hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but there was a
beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, a penny
bread. So by dining at Lockhart's he would be able to cut down his daily
expense by at least twopence; that would extend the time to finish his play
by nearly a week. And if his appetite were not keen, he could assuage it
with a penny plum pudding; or he could take a middle course, making his
dinner off a sausage and mashed potatoes. The room was clean, well lighted,
and airy; he could read his paper there, and forget his troubles in the
observation of character. He even made friends. An old wizen creature, who
had been a prize-fighter, told him of his triumphs. If he hadn't broke his
hand on somebody's nose he'd have been champion light-weight of England.
'And to think that I have come to this,' he added emphatically. 'Even them
boys knock me about now, and 'alf a century ago I could 'ave cleared the
bloomin' place.' There was a merry little waif from