Though Jack turned into the alley at a moderate pace, as soon as he had
gone a short distance, he started again into a smart run.

"I shall have farther to go," he thought, "but Fret Offut will think I
have given up, and thus he will let me get in ahead of him."

This seemed the truth, when, at last, Jack came in sight of the low-walled
and scattering buildings belonging to John Fowler & Co., engine builders.

Fret Offut was nowhere in sight, as Jack entered the dark, dingy office at
the lower end of the buildings.

A small sized man, with mutton chop side whiskers, engaged in overhauling
a pile of musty papers, looked up at the entrance of our hero.

"Want a job as striker, eh?" he asked, as Jack stated his errand. "I
believe Henshaw does want another man. I will call him. What is your
name?"

"Alfret Offut, sir. It's me that wants the job, and it's me it belongs
to."

It was Jack North's enemy who spoke, as he paused on the threshold panting
for breath, while glaring at our hero with a baleful look.

"How come you here?" he demanded of Jack, a second later.

"My feet brought me here, and with less slowness than yours, judging by
your appearance," replied young North.