Not a wasted word did he speak, not a friend, neither man, woman, nor beast did he have. They guessed he was in trouble, run away from his wife like as not. He never knew the price of anything, never remembered it when he was told. He patted all his pockets whenever he looked for change, he never remembered to bring a basket, always buying carrier bags. They didn’t like him in the Street, but they were almost sorry for him. They thought he was dirty too, the way he didn’t shave weekends, and his shirts all grubby.
