“Come on,” George said quickly, and took him by the arm.
The driver and George helped him out of the car. George told the man to wait for them, that they would be back within thirty minutes, which McHarg quickly amended to fifteen. Then George opened the street door with his key and, slowly, carefully, helping the exhausted man, began to propel the tall and angular form up the narrow stairs. They finally got there. George opened the door, led him through into his sitting-room, and seated McHarg in his most comfortable chair, where he immediately let his head slump forward on his breast again. George lit the little open gas radiator which provided the room with the only heat it had, called Mrs. Purvis, who had heard them and was already coming from the kitchen, whispered quickly to her the circumstance of his being there and the identity of his distinguished visitor, and dispatched her at once to make the tea.
When she left the sitting-room McHarg roused himself a little and said: “Georgie, I fell all shot to hell. God, I could sleep a month.”
“I’ve just sent Mrs. Purvis for the tea,” George answered. “She’ll have it ready in a minute. That’ll make you feel better.”
But almost instantly, as if the effort to speak had used up his last energies, McHarg sank back in the chair and collapsed completely. By the time Mrs. Purvis entered with her tray and teapot, he no longer needed tea. He was buried in comatose oblivion—past tea or travel now, past everything.
She saw instantly what had happened. She put the tray down quietly and whispered to George: “‘E’s not goin’ anywhere just yet. ‘E will be needin’ sleep.”
“Yes,” George said. “That’s what he does need, badly.”
“It’s a shame to leave ‘im in that chair. If we could only get ‘im up, sir,” she whispered, “and into your room, ‘e could lie down in your bed. It’d be more comfortable for ‘im.”
George nodded, stooped beside the chair, got one of McHarg’s long, dangling arms round his neck and his own arm round McHarg’s waist, and, heaving, said encouragingly: “Come on, Mr. McHarg. You’ll feel better if you lie down and stretch out.” He made a manful effort and got out of the chair, and took the few steps necessary to enter the bedroom and reach the bed, where he again collapsed, this time face downwards. George rolled him over on his back, straightened him out, undid his collar, and took off his shoes. Then Mrs. Purvis covered him from the raw chill and cold, which seemed to soak right into the little bedroom from the whole clammy reek of fog and drizzle outside. They piled a number of blankets and comforters upon him, brought in a small electric heat reflector and turned it on in such a way that its warmth would reach him, the they pulled the curtains together at the window, darkened the room, closed the doors, and left him.
Mrs. Purvis was splendid.
“Mr. McHarg is very tired,” George said to her. “A little sleep will do him good.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, and nodded wisely and sympathetically. “You can see it’s the strain ‘e’s been under. Meetin’ all them people. And then ‘avin’ to travel so much. It’s easy to see,” she went on loftily, “that ‘e’s still sufferin’ from the fatigue of the journey. But you,” she said quickly—“should think you’d feel tired yourself, what with the excitement and ‘avin’ no lunch and all. Do come,” she said persuasively, “and ‘ave a bite to eat. The gammon is nice, sir. I could ‘ave it for you in a minute.”
Her proposal had George’s enthusiastic endorsement. She hastened to the kitchen, and soon came in again and told him lunch was ready. He went at once to the little dining-room and ate a hearty meal—gammon, peas, boiled potatoes, a crusty apple tart with a piece of cheese, and a bottle of Bass ale.
After that he returned to the sitting-room and decided to stretch out on the sofa. It was a small sofa and much too short for him, but he had had no sleep for more than twenty-four hours and it looked inviting. He lay down with his legs dangling over the end, and almost instantly fell asleep.
Later he was faintly conscious that Mrs. Purvis had come softly in, had put his feet upon a chair, and had spread a blanket over him. He was also dimly aware that she had drawn the curtains, darkened the room, and gone softly out.
Later still, as she prepared to leave for the day, George heard her open the door and listen for a moment; then, very quietly, she tiptoed across the floor and opened the bedroom door and peered in. Evidently satisfied that all was well, she tiptoed out again, closing the doors gently as she went. He heard her creep softly down the stairs, and presently the street door closed. He fell asleep again and slept soundly for some time.