"Garn, you farthin' face! Shet your neck."

"All very fine, Mister Blackey, but how would you like a smack in the
bloomin' eye? I done the best as I knew for you, and there ain't a bloke
round as has a judy wot'll go where I goes and hand over the wongur."

"Never mind, I was waxy when I done it. Maybe we'll 'ave some luck to
morrow'."

I was hidden all this time, and I kept very quiet until the pair moved
away. Over my last pipe I had many meditations, and formed my own
conclusions about Master Blackey.

There are, as I have said, thousands of fellows who have never done any
work, and never mean to do any; they are born in various grades of life;
the public-house is their temple; they live well and lie warm, and you
can see a fine set of them in the full flush of their hoggish jollity at
any suburban race meeting. Blackey was a fair specimen of his tribe;
they are often pleasant and plausible in a certain way, and it is really
a pity that they cannot be forcibly drafted into the army, for they are
always men of fine physique. They are vermin, if you like, but how
admirably we protect them, and how convenient are the houses of call
which we provide for them.

I went warily to work with Blackey, but I was resolved all the same to
see him in his home. It happens that even Blackey's household has a
hanger-on, who also happens to be a parasite of mine. He is a lanky,
weedy lad, with a foxy face. His dark, oblique-set eyes, his high
cheek-bones, his sharp chin, are vulpine to the last degree, and, as he
slouches along with his shoulders rucked up and his knees bent, he