tranquilly, no longer harassed by the thought of the relentless toil,
the inexorable need for bread, that dragged them from their warm beds
while the rest of the world lay asleep.

The Angel, standing at the corner, dazzled the eye with the glare from
its powerful lamps, their rays reflected in immense mirrors fastened to
the walls, advertising in frosted letters the popular brands of whisky.
And it stood alone in the darkening street, piercing the night with an
unwinking stare like an evil spirit, offering its warm, comfortable bars
to the passer-by, drawing men into its deadly embrace like a courtesan,
to reject them afterwards babbling, reeling, staggering, to rouse the
street with quarrels, or to snore in the gutters like swine.

Cassidy the policeman, with the slow, leaden step of a man who is going
nowhere, stopped for a moment in front of the hotel, and examined the
street with a suspicious eye. He saw nothing but some groups of young men
leaning against the veranda-posts at the opposite corner. They smoked and
spat, tranquilly discussing the horses and betting for the next Cup
meeting. Satisfied that the Road was quiet, he moved off, dragging his
feet as if they weighed a ton. At once a sinister excitement passed
through the groups.

"That was Cassidy, now we shan't be long."

"Wot price Jonah givin' us the slip?"

"'Ow'll Chook perform, if 'e ain't at Ada's?"

It was the Push, who had run their man to earth at the Angel, where he was
drinking in the bar, alone. Chook had posted them with the instinct of