Chapter 7

“It’s waste of good room, sir.” Mr. Backhouse had twitched his long eyebrows, and had asked Mr. Pounds if he happened to be deaf. “Did you hear what I said?” “I did, sir.” “Well, don’t waste my time.” John Pybus made his own bed. It was a very simple affair, a camp-bed of green canvas with one army blanket below and one above and a pair of cotton sheets between them. His furniture, too, was of the simplest; a couple of Windsor chairs, an oak table very worm-eaten, a five-tier deal book-case full of books, a basket …