He sucked his thumb now, and felt his bump, and stared at the ceiling and knew that he would come.

During the first months after Ernest Henry's arrival on this planet his friend was never absent from him at all, was always there, drawing through his fingers the threads of the old happy life and the new alarming one, mingling them so that the transition from the one to the other might not be too sharp--reassuring, comforting, consoling.

Then there had been hours when he had withdrawn himself, and that earlier world had grown a little vaguer, a little more remote, and certain things, certain foods and smells and sounds had taken their place within the circle of realised facts.

Then it had come to be that the friend only came at night, came at that moment when the nurse had gone, when the room was dark, and the possible beasts--the first beast, the second beast, and the third beast--began to creep amongst those cool, grey shadows in the hollow of the room.

He always came then, was there with his arm about Ernest Henry, his great body, his dark beard, his large, firm hands--all so reassuring that the beasts might do the worst, and nothing could come of it.