nothing!--nothing but rotten pay whilst we work, and when we're out of
work, dosshouses or kerbstones. D--n clerks, I say. D--n everything!
There's no justice in creation--there's no justice in anything--and
the only people who prate of it are those who have never known what it
is to want. Say, when shall we take the next lot?"

"When we're obliged, not before!" Kelson said. "Or rather, you do as
you like--and I'll do the same."

"Well, I'm not going to commit suicide anyhow," Curtis sneered. "We
haven't the money to buy poison--and I've no mind to drown myself or
cut my throat--they're too painful! If we don't go on doing what we've
done to-night, what are we going to do?"

"Trust to luck," Kelson sighed.

"All right--you trust to luck--but I won't trust any more in
Providence, and that's a fact," Curtis retorted. "We've been done
enough. Now I'm for doing other people. Good-night."

He tumbled into the makeshift bed as he spoke; and in a few minutes,
worn out after the unwonted exertions of the evening, both men were
fast asleep.

They were at breakfast next morning--real _déjeuner à la
carte_--sausages, bread, water--and they were doing ample justice to
it, when some one rapped at the door. For a few seconds there was
silence. Their hearts stood still. Had they been followed, after all?
Was it the police? Some one spoke--and they breathed again. It was
Hamar.