no effort could
recover himself. He had to sit down upon a door-step. The chillness of
his blood, which yet beat feverishly at his temples, affected him with
a dread lest he should not have strength to reach home. His thoughts
would not obey his will; again and again he fell into torment of
apprehension, asking himself how to find money for the rent that was
due, and only with a painful effort of mind remembering the ten
shillings in his pocket. The door beneath which he was sitting suddenly
opened; he staggered up and onwards.

But the cold and the weakness and the anguish of dread grew upon him.
He could not remember the streets by which he had come. He stumped on,
fancying that he recognised this and that object, and at length knew
that he had reached Westminster Bridge Road, The joy of drawing near
home supported him. He had only to go the length of Hercules Buildings,
and then he would be close to the end of Paradise Street. He reached
the grave-yard, walking for the most part as in a terrible dream, among
strange distorted shapes of men and women, the houses tottering black
on either hand, and ever that anvil-beat of the blood at his temples.
Then of a sudden his wooden limb slipped, and he fell to the ground.

He was precisely in front of the Pooles' house. A woman just passing,
who happened to know Mrs. Poole, ran up to the door and knocked, and,
when Mrs. Poole came, asked for some water to throw over a poor old man
who was in a fit on the pavement. Jane, going in for the water, spoke
to her brother, who was sitting in the kitchen. Ackroyd went forth to
see what could be done.

'Why, it's Boddy!' he exclaimed. 'We must carry him in. Jane, go and
tell Jim to come here.'

Of course a crowd had already collected, dark as the street was.

'Hadn't we better take him over to the Bowers'?' asked Jim.

'Yes, it's old Mr. Boddy!' cried a voice. 'He lives at Mrs. Bower's.'

'I know that very well,' said Ackroyd, 'but it's no good taking him
there. Lend a hand, Jim; see, he's coming round a bit.' And he added,
muttering, 'I expect he's starved to death, that's about it.'

Only the night before, Totty had told him of the old man's position,
and he had been casting about for a way of giving help. He did not like
to tell Lydia what was going on, yet the inquiries he had made of the
men who occasionally employed Mr. Boddy convinced him that there was no
hope of the latter's continuing to support himself. In his prese