but I never let my tongue wag. The feck o' the lads comin' the night
are not the real workingman - they're just the froth on the pot, but it's
the froth that will be useful to you. Remember they've heard tell o' ye
already, and ye've some sort o' reputation to keep up.'

'Will Mr Abel Gresson be here?' I asked.

'No,' he said. 'Not yet. Him and me havena yet got to the point
O' payin' visits. But the men that come will be Gresson's friends
and they'll speak of ye to him. It's the best kind of introduction ye
could seek.'

The knocker sounded, and Mr Amos hastened to admit the first
comers. These were Macnab and Wilkie: the one a decent middle-
aged man with a fresh-washed face and a celluloid collar-, the other
a round-shouldered youth, with lank hair and the large eyes and
luminous skin which are the marks of phthisis. 'This is Mr Brand
boys, from South Africa,' was Amos's presentation. Presently came
Niven, a bearded giant, and Mr Norie, the editor, a fat dirty fellow
smoking a rank cigar. Gilkison of the Boiler-fitters, when he
arrived, proved to be a pleasant young man in spectacles who
spoke with an educated voice and clearly belonged to a slightly
different social scale. Last came Tombs, the Cambridge 'professor,
a lean youth with a sour mouth and eyes that reminded me of
Launcelot Wake.

'Ye'll no be a mawgnate, Mr Brand, though ye come from South
Africa,' said Mr Norie with a great guffaw.

'Not me. I'm a working engineer,' I said. 'My father was from