when I've got
you and you can't help yourself, by God it'll be my turn!"

And he meant it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

FIVE.

He seized his overcoat and hat, and putting them on anyhow, strode out.
The kitchen clock struck half-past seven as he left. Chapel-goers would
soon be returning in a thin procession of twos and threes up Trafalgar
Road. To avoid meeting acquaintances he turned down the side street,
towards the old road which was a continuation of Aboukir Street. There
he would be safe. Letting his overcoat fly open, he thrust his hands
into the pockets of his trousers. It was a cold night of mist.
Humanity was separated from him by the semi-transparent blinds of the
cottage windows, bright squares in the dark and enigmatic facades of the
street. He was alone.

All along he had felt and known that this disgusting crisis would come
to pass. He had hoped against it, but not with faith. And he had no
remedy for it. What could he immediately and effectively do? He was
convinced that his father would not yield. There were frequent
occasions when his father was proof against reason, when his father
seemed genuinely unable to admit the claim of justice, and this occasion
was one of them. He could tell by certain peculiarities of tone and
gesture. A pound a week! Assuming that he cut loose from his father,
in a formal and confessed separation, he might not for a long time be in
a position to earn more than a pound a week. A clerk was worth no more.
And, except as responsible manager of a business, he could only go into
the market as a clerk. In the Five Towns how many printing offices were
there that might at some time or another be in need of a manager?
Probably not one. They were all of modest importance, and directed
personally by their proprietary heads. His father's was one of the
largest... No! His father had nurtured and trained, in him, a helpless
slave.

And how could he discuss such a humiliating question with Hilda? Could
he say to Hilda: "See here, my father won't allow me more than a pound a
week. What are we to do?" In what terms should he telegraph to her
to-morrow?

He heard the rapid firm footsteps of a wayfarer overtaking him. He had
no apprehension of being disturbed in his bitter rage. But a hand was
slapped on his shoulder, and a jolly voice said--

"Now, Edwin, where's this road leading you to on a Sunday night?"

It