He told him about the other men in the room and asked him every sort of question about himself.  He was a cheerful youth, and in the intervals of conversation sang in a half-broken voice snatches of music-hall songs.  When Philip had finished he went out to walk about the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally he stopped outside the doors of restaurants and watched the people going in; he felt hungry, so he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled along.  He had been given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned out the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out he returned in good time; he had learned already the system of fines:  you had to pay a shilling if you came in after eleven, and half a crown after a quarter past, and you were reported besides:  if it happened three times you were dismissed.

All but the soldier were in when Philip arrived and two were already in bed.  Philip was greeted with cries.

“Oh, Clarence!  Naughty boy!”

He discovered that Bell had dressed up the bolster in his evening clothes.  The boy was delighted with his joke.

“You must wear them at the social evening, Clarence.”

“He’ll catch the belle of Lynn’s, if he’s not careful.”

Philip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money stopped from the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances of the staff.  It was only two shillings a month, and it covered medical attendance and the use of a library of worn novels; but as four shillings a month besides was stopped for washing, Philip discovered that a quarter of his six shillings a week would never be paid to him.

Most of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a roll of bread cut in two.  These sandwiches, the assistants’ usual supper, were supplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each.  The soldier rolled in; silently, rapidly, took off his clothes and threw himself into bed.  At ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes later went out.  The soldier went to sleep, but the others crowded round the big window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwing remains of their sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below, shouted to them facetious remarks.  The house opposite, six storeys high, was a workshop for Jewish tailors who left off work at eleven; the rooms were brightly lit and there were no blinds to the windows.  The sweater’s daughter—­the family consisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a girl of twenty—­went round the house to put out the lights when work was over, and sometimes she allowed herself to be made love to by one of the tailors.  The shop assistants in Philip’s room got a lot of amusement out of watching the manoeuvres of one man or another to stay behind, and they made small bets on which would succeed.  At midnight the people were turned out of the Harrington Arms at the end of the street, and soon after they all went to bed:  Bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way across the room by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got to his own would not stop talking.  At last everything was silent but for the steady snoring of the soldier, and Philip went to sleep.