He would not sell it, only borrow a sum at the pawn-broker’s, then he could some day recover the instrument.  Nor must he go to a pawn-shop in this neighbourhood, whence tales would spread.  He stumped over into Southwark, and found a quiet street where the three brass halls hung above an illuminated shop front.  The entrance to the pawning department was beneath a dark archway.  At the door he stopped; there was a great lump in his throat, and suddenly, with great physical anguish, tears broke from his eyes.  He stood away from the door until he could master the flow of tears; then he went in, carefully selected a box which was empty, and pledged the violin for ten shillings.  The man refused to lend him more, and he could not argue.

That fit of weeping seemed to have affected him for ill; going forth again into the cold, he trembled violently, and by no effort could recover himself.  He had to sit down upon a door-step.  The chillness of his blood, which yet beat feverishly at his temples, affected him with a dread lest he should not have strength to reach home.  His thoughts would not obey his will; again and again he fell into torment of apprehension, asking himself how to find money for the rent that was due, and only with a painful effort of mind remembering the ten shillings in his pocket.  The door beneath which he was sitting suddenly opened; he staggered up and onwards.

But the cold and the weakness and the anguish of dread grew upon him.  He could not remember the streets by which he had come.  He stumped on, fancying that he recognised this and that object, and at length knew that he had reached Westminster Bridge Road, The joy of drawing near home supported him.  He had only to go the length of Hercules Buildings, and then he would be close to the end of Paradise Street.  He reached the grave-yard, walking for the most part as in a terrible dream, among strange distorted shapes of men and women, the houses tottering black on either hand, and ever that anvil-beat of the blood at his temples.  Then of a sudden his wooden limb slipped, and he fell to the ground.

He was precisely in front of the Pooles’ house.  A woman just passing, who happened to know Mrs. Poole, ran up to the door and knocked, and, when Mrs. Poole came, asked for some water to throw over a poor old man who was in a fit on the pavement.  Jane, going in for the water, spoke to her brother, who was sitting in the kitchen.  Ackroyd went forth to see what could be done.

‘Why, it’s Boddy!’ he exclaimed.  ’We must carry him in.  Jane, go and tell Jim to come here.’

Of course a crowd had already collected, dark as the street was.

‘Hadn’t we better take him over to the Bowers’?’ asked Jim.

‘Yes, it’s old Mr. Boddy!’ cried a voice.  ’He lives at Mrs. Bower’s.’

‘I know that very well,’ said Ackroyd, ’but it’s no good taking him there.  Lend a hand, Jim; see, he’s coming round a bit.’  And he added, muttering, ‘I expect he’s starved to death, that’s about it.’