Mrs Yabsley had evidently gone out with the shirts. He lit the candle and
sat down.

The room was thick with shadows, that fled and advanced as the candle
flickered in the draught. He looked with quiet pleasure on the familiar
objects--the deal table, propped against the wall on account of a broken
leg, the ragged curtain stretched across the window, the new shelf that he
had made out of a box. He studied, with fresh interest, the coloured
almanacs on the wall, and spelt out, with amiable derision, the Scripture
text over the door. He felt vaguely that he was at home.

Home!--the word had no meaning for him. He had been thrown on the streets
when a child by his parents, who had rid themselves of his unwelcome
presence with as little emotion as they would have tossed an empty can
out of doors.

A street-arab, he had picked a living from the gutters, hardened to
exposure, taking food and shelter with the craft of an old soldier in
hostile country. Until he was twelve he had sold newspapers, sleeping
in sheds and empty cases, feeding on the broken victuals thrown out from
the kitchens of hotels and restaurants, and then, drifting by chance to
Waterloo, had found a haven of rest with Paasch as an errand-boy at five
shillings a week.

His cigarette was finished, and there was no sign of Ada. He swore at
himself for coming, picked up his hat, and turned to go. But, at that
moment, from the corner of the room, came a thin, wailing cry. Jonah
started violently, and then, as he recognized the sound, smiled grimly.
It was the baby, awakened by the light. He remembered that Mrs Yabsley
often left it alone in the house.