the `Bloke'. Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by
his new mates `not to let the b--r Sawkins see anything.'

The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of
the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that
followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten.

`How did you get on yesterday?' asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the
plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the Daily
Obscurer.

`No luck,' replied Bundy, gloomily. `I had a bob each way on
Stockwell, in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.'

This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two
others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow's
races. It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion
of Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence
for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned
Captain Kiddem of the Obscurer. One of those who did not join the
syndicate was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper.
He was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that
there must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in
racing or football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion
and politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally
admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had
little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about
thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built
that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his
clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an