thirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt that he must have a
good night's drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he
could get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne might give him an order on
the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile
of papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne began to upset all the papers, searching
for something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man's presence
till that moment, he shot up his head again, saying:

"Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, you
take things easy!"

"I was waiting to see..."

"Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work."

The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the room,
he heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copied
by evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter.

He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets which
remained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink but
he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written: In no
case shall the said Bernard Bodley be... The evening was falling and in
a few minutes they would be lighting the gas: then he could write. He
felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He stood up from his
desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As he
was passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.

"It's all right, Mr. Shelley," said the man, pointing with his finger to
indicate the objective of his journey.

The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row complete,
offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled
a shepherd's plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ran
quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked on
furtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all at
once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O'Neill's
shop, and filling up the little window that looked into the bar with his
inflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called out:

"Here, Pat, give us a g.p.. like a good fellow."

The curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a
gulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and,
leaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the
snug as furtively as he had entered it.

Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon