For lack of a timely conveyance the last mile or so had to be walked.
Julian's cough had been bad during the evening, and now the cold night-air seemed to give him much trouble.

Presently, just as they turned a corner, a severe blast of wind met them full in the face.
Julian began coughing violently, and all at once became so weak that he had to lean against a palisading.

Waymark, looking closer in alarm, saw that the handkerchief which the poor fellow was holding to his mouth was covered with blood.
"We must have a cab," he exclaimed.

"It is impossible for you to walk in this state." Julian resisted, with assurances that the worst was over for the time.
If Waymark would give the support of his arm, he would get on quite well.

There was no overcoming his resolution to proceed.
"There's no misunderstanding this, old fellow," he said, with a laugh, when they had walked a few paces.
Waymark made no reply.
"You'll laugh at me," Julian went on, "but isn't there a certain resemblance between my case and that of Keats?
He too was a drug-pounder; he liked it as little as I do; and he died young of consumption.