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On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at

each step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive

faster. The hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His

throat burned and his delicate hands twitched nervously together.

He struck at the horse madly with his stick. The driver laughed

and whipped up. He laughed in answer, and the man was silent.

The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web

of some sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as

the mist thickened, he felt afraid.

Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here,

and he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their

orange, fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by,

and far away in the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed.

The horse stumbled in a rut, then swerved aside and broke into a

gallop.