Chapter 3

           TheswiftDecemberduskhadcometumblingclownishlyafteritsdulldayand,ashestaredthroughthedullsquareofthewindowoftheschoolroom,hefelthisbellycraveforitsfood.Hehopedtherewouldbestewfordinner,turnipsandcarrotsandbruisedpotatoesandfatmuttonpiecestobeladledoutinthickpepperedflour-fattenedsauce.Stuffitintoyou,hisbellycounselledhim.

           Itwouldbeagloomysecretnight.Afterearlynightfalltheyellowlampswouldlightup,hereandthere,thesqualidquarterofthebrothels.Hewouldfollowadeviouscourseupanddownthestreets,circlingalwaysnearerandnearerinatremoroffearandjoy,untilhisfeetledhimsuddenlyroundadarkcorner.Thewhoreswouldbejustcomingoutoftheirhousesmakingreadyforthenight,yawninglazilyaftertheirsleepandsettlingthehairpinsintheirclustersofhair.Hewouldpassbythemcalmlywaitingforasuddenmovementofhisownwillorasuddencalltohissin-lovingsoulfromtheirsoftperfumedflesh.Yetasheprowledinquestofthatcall,hissenses,stultifiedonlybyhisdesire,wouldnotekeenlyallthatwoundedorshamedthem;hiseyes,aringofporterfrothonaclothlesstableoraphotographoftwosoldiersstandingtoattentionoragaudyplaybill;hisears,thedrawlingjargonofgreeting:

           —Hello,Bertie,anygoodinyourmind?

           —Isthatyou,pigeon?

           —Numberten.FreshNellyiswaitingonyou.