It was the voice of the little man, Charlie, who had spoken with Myatt
on the football field.

"Come in quick, Charlie. It's cowd [cold]," said the voice of Jos Myatt,
gloomily.

"Ay! Cowd it is, lad! It's above three mile as I've walked, and thou
knows it, Jos. Give us a quartern o' gin."

The door grated again and a bolt was drawn.

The two men passed together behind the bar, and so within my vision.
Charlie had a grey muffler round his neck; his hands were far in his
pockets and seemed to be at strain, as though trying to prevent his
upper and his lower garments from flying apart. Jos Myatt was extremely
dishevelled. In the little man's demeanour towards the big one there was
now none of the self-conscious pride in the mere fact of acquaintance
that I had noticed on the field. Clearly the two were intimate friends,
perhaps relatives. While Jos was dispensing the gin, Charlie said, in a
low tone:

"Well, what luck, Jos?"

This was the first reference, by either of them, to the crisis.

Jos deliberately finished pouring out the gin. Then he said:

"There's two on 'em, Charlie."

"Two on 'em? What mean'st tha', lad?"