century. Neither horns nor goat's feet were visible; nor was the
pipe of reed on which he played. Yet he played, in Paul's ear, the
comforting melody of Pan, and the glory of the Vision once more
flooded Paul's senses, and the factory and Budge Street and the
Buttons and the scullery faded away like an evil dream.



CHAPTER III

THE Fates arranged Barney Bill's entrance late on a Saturday
afternoon in August. It was not dramatic. It was merely casual. They
laid the scene in the brickfield.

It had rained all day, and now there was sullen clearance. Paul, who
had been bathing with some factory boys in the not very savoury
canal a mile or so distant, had wandered mechanically to his
brickfield library, which, by means of some scavenging process, he
managed to keep meagrely replenished. Here he had settled himself
with a dilapidated book on his knees for an hour's intellectual
enjoyment. It was not a cheerful evening. The ground was sodden, and
rank emanations rose from the refuse. From where he sat he could see
an angry sunset like a black-winged dragon with belly of flame
brooding over the town. The place wore an especial air of
desolation. Paul felt depressed. Bathing in the pouring wet is a
chilly sport, and his midday meal of cold potatoes had not been
invigorating. These he had grabbed, and, having done them up hastily
in newspaper, had bolted with them out of the house. He had been
fined heavily for slackness during the week, and Mr. Button's
inevitable wrath at docked wages he desired to undergo as late as