A little, bedraggled crowd stood before the park gates, awaiting the hour named on the notice board when they would be admitted to such lodging and shelter as iron seats and overspreading branches might afford.  A weary, patient-eyed, dogged crowd—­a dozen men, a boy of thirteen, and a couple of women, both past middle age—­which had been gathering slowly since five o’clock.  The boy appeared to be the least uncomfortable.  His feet were bare, but he had slept well in an area in Grosvenor Place, and was not very damp yet.  The women had nodded on many doorsteps, and were soaked.  They stood apart from the men, who seemed unconscious of their existence.  The men were exactly such as one would have expected to find there—­beery and restless as to the eyes, quaintly shod, and with nondescript greenish clothes which for the most part bore traces of the yoke of the sandwich board.  Only one amongst them was different.

He was young, and his cap, and manner of wearing it, gave sign of the sea.  His face showed the rough outlines of his history.  Yet it was a transparently honest face, very pale, but still boyish and fresh enough to make one wonder by what rapid descent he had reached his present level.  Perhaps the receding chin, the heavy, pouting lower lip, and the ceaselessly twitching mouth offered a key to the problem.

‘Say, Darkey!’ he said.

‘Well?’

‘How much longer?’

‘Can’t ye see the clock?  It’s staring ye in the face.’

‘No.  Something queer’s come over my eyes.’

Darkey was a short, sturdy man, who kept his head down and his hands deep in his pockets.  The raindrops clinging to the rim of an ancient hat fell every now and then into his gray beard, which presented a drowned appearance.  He was a person of long and varied experiences; he knew that queer feeling in the eyes, and his heart softened.

‘Come, lean against the pillar,’ he said, ’if you don’t want to tumble.  Three of brandy’s what you want.  There’s four minutes to wait yet.’

With body flattened to the masonry, legs apart, and head thrown back, Darkey’s companion felt more secure, and his mercurial spirits began to revive.  He took off his cap, and brushing back his light brown curly hair with the hand which held it, he looked down at Darkey through half-closed eyes, the play of his features divided between a smile and a yawn.

He had a lively sense of humour, and the irony of his situation was not lost on him.  He took a grim, ferocious delight in calling up the might-have-beens and the ‘fatuous ineffectual yesterdays’ of life.  There is a certain sardonic satisfaction to be gleaned from a frank recognition of the fact that you are the architect of your own misfortune.  He felt that satisfaction, and laughed at Darkey, who was one of those who moan about ‘ill-luck’ and ‘victims of circumstance.’

‘No doubt,’ he would say, ’you’re a very deserving fellow, Darkey, who’s been treated badly.  I’m not.’