The collar and cuffs of his shirt were
frayed and yellow, and he fastened his
collar with a pin and tied his worn
necktie carelessly. His overcoat was
beginning to wear a greenish shade
and look threadbare, so was his hat.
When his toilet was complete he
looked at himself in the cracked and
hazy glass, bending forward to
scrutinize his unshaven face under the
shadow of the dingy hat.
"It is all right," he muttered.
"It is not far to the pawnshop
where I saw it."
The stillness of the room as he
turned to go out was uncanny. As
it was a back room, there was no
street below from which could arise
sounds of passing vehicles, and the
thickness of the fog muffled such
sound as might have floated from the
front. He stopped half-way to the
door, not knowing why, and listened.
To what--for what? The silence
seemed to spread through all the
house--out into the streets--
through all London--through all
the world, and he to stand in the
midst of it, a man on the way to
Death--with no To-morrow.
What did it mean? It seemed to
mean something. The world
withdrawn--life withdrawn--sound
withdrawn--breath withdrawn. He
stood and waited. Perhaps this
was one of the symptoms of the
morbid thing for which there was
that name. If so he had better get
away quickly and have it over, lest
he be found wandering about not
knowing--not knowing. But now
he knew--the Silence. He waited
--waited and tried to hear, as if
something was calling him--calling
without sound.
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