Percy was outraged.

“I’m her brother!” He was about to substantiate the statement by giving his name, but stopped himself.  He had had enough of letting his name come out on occasions like the present.  When the policeman had arrested him in the Haymarket, his first act had been to thunder his identity at the man:  and the policeman, without saying in so many words that he disbelieved him, had hinted scepticism by replying that he himself was the king of Brixton.  “I’m her brother!” he repeated thickly.

The curate’s disapproval deepened.  In a sense, we are all brothers; but that did not prevent him from considering that this mud-stained derelict had made an impudent and abominable mis-statement of fact.  Not unnaturally he came to the conclusion that he had to do with a victim of the Demon Rum.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said severely.  “Sad piece of human wreckage as you are, you speak like an educated man.  Have you no self-respect?  Do you never search your heart and shudder at the horrible degradation which you have brought on yourself by sheer weakness of will?”

He raise his voice.  The subject of Temperance was one very near to the curate’s heart.  The vicar himself had complimented him only yesterday on the good his sermons against the drink evil were doing in the village, and the landlord of the Three Pigeons down the road had on several occasions spoken bitter things about blighters who came taking the living away from honest folks.

“It is easy enough to stop if you will but use a little resolution.  You say to yourself, ‘Just one won’t hurt me!’ Perhaps not.  But can you be content with just one?  Ah!  No, my man, there is no middle way for such as you.  It must be all or nothing.  Stop it now—­now, while you still retain some semblance of humanity.  Soon it will be too late!  Kill that craving!  Stifle it!  Strangle it!  Make up your mind now—­now, that not another drop of the accursed stuff shall pass your lips... .”

The curate paused.  He perceived that enthusiasm was leading him away from the main issue.  “A little perseverance,” he concluded rapidly, “and you will soon find that cocoa gives you exactly the same pleasure.  And now will you please be getting along.  You have frightened the young lady, and she cannot continue her walk unless I assure her that you have gone away.”

Fatigue, pain and the annoyance of having to listen to this man’s well-meant but ill-judged utterances had combined to induce in Percy a condition bordering on hysteria.  He stamped his foot, and uttered a howl as the blister warned him with a sharp twinge that this sort of behaviour could not be permitted.

“Stop talking!” he bellowed.  “Stop talking like an idiot!  I’m going to stay here till that girl comes out, if have to wait all day!”

The curate regarded Percy thoughtfully.  Percy was no Hercules:  but then, neither was the curate.  And in any case, though no Hercules, Percy was undeniably an ugly-looking brute.  Strategy, rather than force, seemed to the curate to be indicated.  He paused a while, as one who weighs pros and cons, then spoke briskly, with the air of the man who has decided to yield a point with a good grace.