Mystery: The Beetle

om!-Fu

the door i

the fin

n,-that was bad. But, sick at heart, depressed in mind and in body, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, to have been compelled to pocket any little pride I might have left, and soli

rdly expected to figure as a tramp; but, supposing it conceivable that I could become a tramp, that I should be refused admission to

uld do, a man slouched towards

'e let

ys it'

ay at Fulham,-they always says it's fu

orward; his hands were in his trouser pocket

ull when it isn't,-that they won'

-bloke's a-

oom, aren't they b

limey, if I was you I'd

o a volley o

at am I

rouser-let 'em know a

open, and the grizzled pauper, who had previously responded to my summons, stood in the open doorway. Ha

game? Think I've nothing better to d

to be ad

won't be

ee someone i

ein' someone

ne besides you,-I wa

won't see

a manoeuvre, I thrust my foot sufficiently inside t

e that the w

wo hour

at am I

ow what you

e next neare

sing

thrust me backwards. Before I could recover the door was closed. The

loke, a

ers,-has he any right to a

icers,-a long sight wuss! They thinks they owns the '

ow it was commencing to fall in a fine but soaking drizzle. It only needed that to fil

ou got n

a far

of this sor

a casual ward,-and it doesn't se

if you was a bit fresh.-W

s it to Ke

mile;-but, if I was yo

e's t

ey do you well there, and it's always full as soon as th

ind, feeling as little disposed to try the one

'Ammersmith, I says,-and now I'm as fur off from it as ever! This is a--fine country, this is,-I wish every--soul in it was swe

to manage it,-have

I sound as though I 'ad too! I ain't 'ad no brads,

going to ge

The one in his left he flung at the glass which was over the door of the casual ward.

zzled pauper reappeared. He shouted,

done

ike, you can see me do the other.

hand through another pane. I felt that it was time for me to go. He was earning

rection, left little to be desired. I slunk away unnoticed. But had not gone far before I had almost decided that I might as well have thrown in my fortu

little distance in any direction. The neighbourhood was badly lighted. It was one in which I was a stranger. I had come to Hammersmith as a last resource. It had seemed to me that I had tried to find

the locality which I was entering appeared unfinished. I seemed to be leaving civilisation behind me. The path was unpaved; the road rough and uneven, as if it had never been prop

ould strike some part of Walham Green. How long I should have to keep on I could only guess. Not a c

en air, without food, when the morning came I should be broken up, and fit for nothing, that I sought a night's free board and lodging. It was really hunger which drove me to the workhouse door. That was Wednesday. Since the Sunday night preceding nothing had passed my lips save water from the public fountains,-with the exception of a crust of bread which a

. And within there was that frightful craving, which was as though it shrieked aloud. I leant against some palings, dazed and giddy. If only death

ad. Once, like a drunken man, I lurched forward, and fell upon my knees. Such was my backboneless state that for some seconds I remained where I was, half disposed to

giddiness which, I take it, was born of my agony of hunger. I staggered, helplessly, against a low wall which, just there, was at the side of the path. Without it I should have fallen in a heap. The att

f bread what

es all round London, and which are let at rentals of from twenty-five to forty pounds a year. It was detached. So far as I could see, in the imperfect light, there was not another building within twenty or thirty

e touched either of the windows on the lower floor. There were two of them. One of them wa