He fumbled hurriedly for the latch of the van door, found it, and
leaped out into the waste under the stars, just as the owner of the
van rose with a clatter of coins. To pick up money is a deeply
rooted human instinct. Barney Bill lit his lamp, and, uttering juicy
though innocuous flowers of anathema, searched for the scattered
treasure. When he had retrieved three shillings and
sevenpence-halfpenny he peered out. Paul was far away. Barney Bill
put the money on the shelf and looked at it in a puzzled way. Was it
an earnest of the boy's return, or was it a bribe to let him go? The
former hypothesis seemed untenable, for if he got nabbed his
penniless condition would be such an aggravation of his offence as
to call down upon him a more ferocious punishment than he need have
risked. And why in the name of sanity did he want to go home? To
kiss his sainted mother in her sleep? To pack his blankety
portmanteau? Barney Bill's fancy took a satirical turn. On the
latter hypothesis, the boy was in deadly fear, and preferred the
certainty of the ferocious punishment to the terrors of an unknown
future. Barney Bill smoked a reflective pipe, looking at the matter
from the two points of view. Not being able to decide, he put out
his lamp, shut his door and went to sleep.

Dawn awoke him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Paul was not there.
He did not expect him to be there. He felt sorry. The poor little
kid had funked it. He had hoped for better stuff. He rose and
stretched himself, put on socks and boots, lit his cooking stove,
set a kettle to boil and, opening the door, remained for a while
breathing the misty morning air. Then he let himself down and
proceeded to the back of the van, where stood a pail of water and a
tin basin, his simple washing apparatus. Having sluiced bead and