but a policeman, somebody would notice and help me; but no one came.  Crowds seemed to sweep by without a pause,—­all hurrying, restless; some with anxious faces, as if any delay would be mortal; some in noisy groups intercepting the passage of the others.  Sometimes one would pause to point me out to his comrades with a shout of derision at my miserable plight, or if by a change of posture I got outside the protection of my wall, would kick me back with a coarse injunction to keep out of the way.  No one was sorry for me; not a look of compassion, not a word of inquiry was wasted upon me; no representative of authority appeared.  I saw a dozen quarrels while I lay there, cries of the weak, and triumphant shouts of the strong; but that was all.

I was drawn after a while from the fierce and burning sense of my own grievances by a querulous voice quite close to me.  ‘This is my corner,’ it said.  ’I’ve sat here for years, and I have a right to it.  And here you come, you big ruffian, because you know I haven’t got the strength to push you away.’

‘Who are you?’ I said, turning round horror-stricken; for close beside me was a miserable man, apparently in the last stage of disease.  He was pale as death, yet eaten up with sores.  His body was agitated by a nervous trembling.  He seemed to shuffle along on hands and feet, as though the ordinary mode of locomotion was impossible to him, and yet was in possession of all his limbs.  Pain was written in his face.  I drew away to leave him room, with mingled pity and horror that this poor wretch should be the partner of the only shelter I could find within so short a time of my arrival.  I who—­It was horrible, shameful, humiliating; and yet the suffering in his wretched face was so evident that I could not but feel a pang of pity too.  ‘I have nowhere to go,’ I said.  ’I am—­a stranger.  I have been badly used, and nobody seems to care.’

‘No,’ he said, ’nobody cares; don’t you look for that.  Why should they?  Why, you look as if you were sorry for me! What a joke!’ he murmured to himself,—­’what a joke!  Sorry for some one else!  What a fool the fellow must be!’

‘You look,’ I said, ’as if you were suffering horribly; and you say you have come here for years.’

‘Suffering!  I should think I was,’ said the sick man; ’but what is that to you?  Yes; I’ve been here for years,—­oh, years! that means nothing,—­for longer than can be counted.  Suffering is not the word.  It’s torture; it’s agony!  But who cares?  Take your leg out of my way.’

I drew myself out of his way from a sort of habit, though against my will, and asked, from habit too, ‘Are you never any better than now?’

He looked at me more closely, and an air of astonishment came over his face.  ‘What d’ye want here,’ he said, ’pitying a man?  That’s something new here.  No; I’m not always so bad, if you want to know.  I get better, and then I go and do what makes me bad again, and that’s how it will go on; and I choose it to be so, and you needn’t bring any of your d——­d pity here.’