"Larry Green," he said briefly. "He's coming out next month, too,
and we are all fixed up proper. We are going to get the pile and
then we're off to South America, and you won't see us for dust."

Though he employed all the colloquialisms which were common, his
tone was that of a man of education, and yet there was something
in his address which told John as clearly as though the man had
confessed as much, that he had never occupied any social position
in life.

The warder's step on the stones outside reduced them to silence.
Suddenly his voice came up the stairs.

"Forty-three," he called sharply, "I want you down here."

John took his paint pot and brush and went clattering down the
uncarpeted stairs.

"Where's the other man?" asked the warder, in a low voice.

"He's upstairs in the back room."

The warder stepped out of the door and looked left and right.
Coming up from Princetown was a big, grey car.

"Put down your paint pot," he said.

His voice was shaking with excitement.