"Martin, it's--it's--" began the old man, his face crimsoning up to the
very roots of his hair, and struggling vainly with his infirmity.

"Have a drink, old un," said Tom, good naturedly, handing Begmand the
mug.

The old man paused for breath. "Thanks, Mr. Robson," said he, taking a
long breath.

Tom Robson made signs to the others to leave him alone. Begmand put his
pipe into his waistcoat pocket, got up, and went into the little room by
the kitchen, where he slept. The unwonted drink had roused again the
fire of his youth, and never had he felt his helplessness so keenly as
he did that evening.

The others still sat drinking till there was no more, and the lamp began
to grow dim as the oil gave out. Then they staggered off; Woodlouse away
through West End, while Tom clambered up a steep path that led over the
hill at the back of Begmand's cottage. He lived with a widow in a small
house near the farm buildings of Sandsgaard.

Torpander went with Robson, because he was afraid to go through West End
alone, and because he wanted to have a last glance at Marianne's window,
which looked on to the hillside.

Martin shut the door after them, and managed to lift up the lid of a
sort of locker in which he was going to sleep. He did not see that there
were some empty bottles on the locker, and they rolled down on the
floor, and one of them was broken against the spittoon. The lid slipped
out of his hand, and, without trying to undress, he let himself fall