CHAPTER XXII. He may die. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. He looked at her in some embarrassment. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. "You mean you were just sorry for him?" "As I would be for any human being in pain. How dreary it all looks. ” Just then the man’s eyes opened. The guests congregated within the night-cellar were, in fact, little better than thieves; but thieves who confined their depredations almost exclusively to the vessels lying in the pool and docks of the river.
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