CHAPTER TWELVE.
HOW TOM DRIFT BEGINS TO GO DOWNHILL.
Time went on, and Tom Drift advanced inch by inch nearer the brink.

He slipped, not without many an effort to recover himself, many a pang of self-reproach, many a vague hope of deliverance.
"Be good to Tom Drift!" was ever ringing in my ears.

But what could I do?
He often neglected me for days.

All I could do was to watch and tremble for what was coming.
You who are so ready to call Tom a fool, and hug yourselves that you have more strength of character and resolution than he had, try to realise what were his perils and what were his temptations at that time, before you pass judgment.
The dulness of those lodgings in Grime Street was often almost unbearable.

When his work was done, and Tom looked out of the window and saw nothing but carts and cabs and tradesmen, and the dismal houses opposite, what wonder if he sometimes felt miserable?
When he heard nothing but pattering footsteps down the pavement, the rumble of wheels and the street cries under his window, what wonder if he felt lonely and friendless?
No footsteps stopped at _his_ door, no friendly face lightened _his_ dull study, no cheery laughter brought music to _his_ life.