d been any means of flight or place to flee
to, if the world had been so ordered that a man could leave it like a
place of entertainment, Morris would have instantly resigned all further
claim on its rewards and pleasures, and, with inexpressible contentment,
ceased to be. As it was, one aim shone before him: he could get home.
Even as the sick dog crawls under the sofa, Morris could shut the door
of John Street and be alone.

The dusk was falling when he drew near this place of refuge; and the
first thing that met his eyes was the figure of a man upon the step,
alternately plucking at the bell-handle and pounding on the panels. The
man had no hat, his clothes were hideous with filth, he had the air of a
hop-picker. Yet Morris knew him; it was John.

The first impulse of flight was succeeded, in the elder brother's bosom,
by the empty quiescence of despair. "What does it matter now?" he
thought, and drawing forth his latch-key ascended the steps.

John turned about; his face was ghastly with weariness and dirt and
fury; and as he recognised the head of his family, he drew in a long
rasping breath, and his eyes glittered.

"Open that door," he said, standing back.

"I am going to," said Morris, and added mentally, "He looks like
murder!"

The brothers passed into the hall, the door closed behind them; and
suddenly John seized Morris by the shoulders and shook him as a terrier
shakes a rat. "You mangy little cad," he said, "I'd serve you right to
smash your skull!" And shook him again, so that his teeth rattled and
his head smote upon the wall.

"Don't be violent, Johnny," said Morris. "It can't do any good now."

"Shut your mouth," said John, "your time's come to listen."

He strode into the dining-room, fell into the easy-chair, and taking off
one of his burst walking-shoes, nursed for a while his foot like one in
agony. "I'm lame for life," he said. "What is there for dinner?"

"Nothing, Johnny," said Morris.

"Nothing? What do you mean by that?" inquired the Great Vance. "Don't
set up your chat to me!"

"I mean simply nothing," said his brother. "I have nothing to eat, and
nothing to buy it with. I've only had a cup of tea and a sandwich all
this day myself."

"Only a sandwich?" sneered Vance. "I suppose _you_'re going to complain
next. But you had better take care: I've had all I mean to take; and I
can tell you what it is, I mean to dine and to dine well. Take your
signets and sell them."

"I can't