Charles saw him begin to move, broke away, and ran. The pillar of society, brought up short by the punch to the heart, blinked round, saw the policeman, and shambled rapidly away in another direction. He had a good reason for not wanting police-court publicity, but Charles had a better. Like a hunted hare he fled down one shabby turning after another, afraid to look back to see whether he was being followed. He had dropped his cigarettes; he had struck an older man after trying to swindle him; this was rock-bottom again. His breath began to come painfully, he must stop running, get off the streets somehow. A doorway. He swung himself into it at full speed, with the stitch tearing at his side and his lungs close to bursting point. Smack into Mr. Blearney.

Who said reprovingly, ‘You want to take it easy, partner. Why don’t you put shorts on and go into the country if you want to run before breakfast?’

He had been putting his overcoat on, and his right arm was pinioned behind his back as Charles rammed him against the wall. He got free, straightened himself, and shook the coat on.

‘Good thing I wasn’t smoking,’ he went on. ‘You might have put your eye out on my cheroot if I had been.’

‘Take—me upstairs,’ Charles gasped. ‘Got to stay off the streets —a bit—some unpleasantness—just sit down—get my breath back.’

‘Well, the club’s just closing,’ said Mr. Blearney doubtfully. ‘And it’s downstairs, anyway, not up. Well, just for a few minutes then.’

They pattered down the grimy steps. A door said, ‘Golden Peach Club’. ‘The golden peaches have all gone home,’ said Mr. Blearney.

The room stank, stale tobacco and drink. Sweat and advanced halitosis fought it out with the dominant odours. Charles breathed deeply, but there was not much that his lungs could use for the benefit of his bloodstream.

‘This is Ada. Manageress,’ said Mr. Blearney briefly.

A fat woman with a shock of henna-stained hair looked at him across a tray of dirty glasses.

‘One of your friends, Arthur? Bit late to come to the club. Better get him out of here so I can lock up. My hours are supposed to be eleven till six.’

‘Take it easy, Ada,’ he implored. ‘I’ll take him round to my place for some breakfast.’

‘Eleven till six,’ she said, ‘and don’t you forget it.’

‘Drink this, partner, and we’ll go home.’

It was bad whisky. Charles drank it and they went home.