somewhat doubtful pastime he would exhibit a knowledge of human nature
and an infinite patience worthy of a better object. From some occult
reasoning of his Celtic soul the psychological moment he generally chose
as being likely the most fruitful of results was either a few minutes
before, or after "Lights Out."

When the ensuing conflagration had blazed to the desired stage he would
quietly extinguish his own vocal torch and lie back on his cot with a
sort of "Mark Antony" "Now let it work!" chuckle. "Getting their goats"
he termed it. Usually though, when the storm of bad language and boots
had subsided, his dupes, too, like those of "Silver Street" were wont to
scratch their heads and commune one with another:--

--_begod, I wonder why_?

He was a heavy-shouldered man; middle-aged, with thick, crisp iron-gray
hair and moustache and a pair of humourous brown eyes twinkling in a
lined, weather-beaten face. His slightly nasal voice was dry and
penetrating to the point of exasperation. For many years he had acted as
"farrier" to L. Division.

George warily accepted the share of the pleasantry extended to him with a
shrug, and a non-committal grin. But Hardy chose to regard it as a
distinct challenge, and therefore a promising bone of contention. He
gloated over it awhile ere pouncing.

A medium-sized, wiry, compactly-built man bodily, Hardy bore lightly the
weight of his forty-five years. His hair was of that uncertain sandy
colour which somehow never seems to turn gray; the edges of the
crisply-curling forelock being soaped, rolled and brushed up into that