London starts its day as freshly as the country, and in the early hours of a spring morning, before the scent of the tanning-yards is awake, even Bermondsey seems pure and bright. The loads of vegetables strolling up Old Kent Road, the belated pockets of last year’s hops coming, roped sky high, out of the gates of the goods station; the rapid barrows returning from Covent Garden with supplies of flowers and fruit for suburban shops—all these help. At half-past seven comes a transition period. The day’s work has begun and it has not begun. Every five minutes increases the haste of those who come out of the giant model dwellings, and up from the tributary roads; girls, as they run, stab at their hats; men, at a trot, endeavour in vain to light their pipes, but continue trying as they go, because matches are cheap and time is priceless. The law of compensation asserts itself: those who were merry last night and stayed out until half-past twelve to sing their way joyously home are, in the morning, thoughtful or surly, whilst those who eluded the attractions of the club or public-house rally them with much enjoyment on their obvious depression.

Erb, after the exaltation of Sunday night’s meeting in St. George’s Road, where his unreasonable hope to see again the tall, lame girl had been disappointed, but where he had received from one of the leading men in the labour world, grown white-haired in the service, a gracious compliment (“I was like my enthusiastic friend Barnes, here, when I was a lad,” the white-haired man had said), Erb experienced a slight reaction to find that here was the old matter-of-fact world and—Monday morning! An independent set, because of the fact that for so many hours of the day they were their own masters, with a horse and van to take them about, and a vanboy for slave or despot, on Monday mornings carmen were specially curt of speech and unreliable of temper. In the stables was contentious dispute about horses, about the condition of the empty vans, about tardily arriving boys, about anything, in fact, that lent itself to disapproval. Erb’s boy, William Henry, was prompt as ever, but Erb found annoyance in the circumstance that his friend Payne, instead of taking up conversation in regard to an important matter where it had been left the previous afternoon, now treated this as a subject of secondary importance, and as they drove up in the direction of town and the Borough, insisted, with the interruptions that came when traffic parted their vans, on giving to Erb details of a domestic quarrel, in which his wife, Payne said, had been wrong and he had been right; Payne seemed anxious, however, to obtain confirmation of this view from some impartial outsider. The boy on each van left his rope at the back to listen.“Shall we have time to do that,” asked Erb at St. George’s Church, where there was a stop of traffic, “before we start out on our first rounds? I should like to see it under weigh.”

“It isn’t,” said Payne from his van, still absorbed with his own affairs, “it isn’t as though I was always nagging. I don’t seepose I’ve lifted me ’and at her half-a-dozen times this year, and then only when she’s aggravated me.”

“It ought to have an effect if we can get every name signed to it.”

“Question is, has a legally married wife got any right to go throwing a man’s rel’tives in his face jest because they don’t come to see her? I ain’t responsible for my Uncle Richard, am I? If he’s gone and got himself into trouble in his time it ain’t me that’s got to be punished, is it? Very well, then, what’s the use of talkin’?”

William Henry, in Erb’s van, made a note. Never have an Uncle Richard.

“It must be unanimous,” remarked Erb, speaking in fragments, and endeavouring to entice Payne’s mind to imperial subjects as the policeman’s hand allowed them to go on, “or else it might as well not be done at all. It’s a case of all of us sticking together like glue. If it don’t have no effect, what I’ve been thinking of is a deputation to the General Manager.”

“She’s not a going to manage me,” returned Payne, catching something of the last sentence. “If I’m treated with proper respect I’m a lamb, but if anyone attempts to lord it over me, I’m simply a—”

William Henry, ordered back to the tail of his van, made note number two. Trouble brewing, and, in the case of wholesale discharges, a fair chance of honest lads gaining promotion.

The van foreman waited at the entrance to the railway arch where the up parcels office, after many experiments in other places, had decided to settle; he looked on narrowly as the vans drove up the side street. The van foreman had been a carman in his day (to say nothing of a more lowly start in boyhood), and he openly flattered himself that he knew the whole bag of tricks: he also sometimes remarked acutely that anyone who had the best of him had only one other person to get over, and that other person did not live on this earth. The van foreman was not really so clever as he judged himself to be (but his case was neither unprecedented nor without imitators), and his maxim—which was that in dealing with men you had to keep hammering away at them—was one that in practice had at times defective results.

“Yes,” said the van foreman gloomily, as though replying to a question, “of course, you two are not the first to arrive. Barnes and Payne—Payne and Barnes. There ain’t a pin to choose between you. What’s your excuse?”

“Wh-oh!” said Erb to his horse, assuming that it had shied. “Wo—ho! my beauty. Don’t be frightened at him. He ain’t pretty, but he’s quite harmless.”

“I want no sauce,” snapped the van foreman. “Good manners cost nothing.”

“You might as well replenish your stock, then,” retorted Erb.

“Re-plenish!” echoed the other disgustedly. “Why don’t you talk the Queen’s English like what I do? What’s all this I ’ear about a round robin to the guy’nor?”

“Fond of game, isn’t he?”

“Look ’ere,” said the van foreman seriously, “I’m not going to bemean meself by talking to you. I’ve spoken to some of the others, and I’ve told them there’s the sack for every man jack of ’em that signs it. I give no such warning to you, mind: I simply turn me back on you, like this.”

“Your back view’s bad enough,” called Erb as the other went off; “but your front view’s something awful.”

“I was a better lookin’ chap than you,” called the van foreman hotly, “once.”

“Once ain’t often,” said Erb.

He backed his van into position, and was about to cry, “Chain on!” but William Henry had anticipated the order, and had, moreover, fetched from the booking-up desk the long white delivery sheet, with its entries of names and addresses.

William Henry also assisted in loading up the parcels with more than usual alacrity, that he might have a few minutes in which to saunter about with an air of unconcern and pick up news concerning possible vacancies. The carmen who had finished their work of loading, went up to the further end of the arch, waiting for the hour of twenty to nine, and snatching the opportunity for discussing a matter of public interest. Erb followed, watched keenly by the van foreman.

“Got the document, Erb?”

“’Ere it is,” said Erb importantly, drawing a long envelope from the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. “All drawn up in due order, I think.”

“What we’ve got to be careful about,” said a cautious, elderly carman preparing to listen, “is not to pitch it too strong, and not to pitch it too weak.”

“The same first-class idea occurred to me,” remarked Erb.

“Read it out to ’em, Erb,” suggested Payne.

Pride and a suggestion of Southwark Park was in the young man’s tones, as, unfolding the sheet of foolscap paper, he proceeded to recite the terms of the memorial. The style was, perhaps, slightly too elaborate for the occasion, but this appeared to be no defect in the eyes and ears of the listening men.

“‘And your petitioners respectfully submit, therefore, these facts to your notice, viz.,’—”

“What does ‘viz.’ mean?” asked the cautious, elderly carman.

“‘Viz,’” explained Erb, “is quite a well-known phrase, always used in official communications. ‘To your notice, viz., the long hours which we work, the paucity of pay, and the mediocre prospects of advancement. Whilst your petitioners are unwilling to resort to extreme measures, they trust it will be understood that there exists a general and a unanimous determination to improve or ameliorate’—”

“He’ll never understand words like that,” said the elderly carman despairingly. “Why, I can only guess at their meaning.”

“‘Or ameliorate the present environments under which they are forced to carry on their duties. Asking the favour of an early answer, We are, sir, your obedient servants—’”

“That,” concluded Erb, “that is where we all sign.”

“Your respectful and obedient servants, I should say,” suggested the elderly carman.

“Hark!” said Erb authoritatively. “The terms of this have all been very carefully considered, and once you begin to interfere with them, you’ll mar the unity of the whole thing. Payne, got your pen?”

Payne seemed to feel that he was adjusting his quarrel with domestic events by dipping his penholder into an inkstand and signing his name fiercely. Erb followed, and the other men contributed to the irregular circle of names. The elderly carman hesitated, but one of his colleagues remarked that one might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and the elderly carman appeared to derive great encouragement from this, signing his name carefully and legibly, and looking at it when done with something like affection.“I sha’n’t ask you to get away with your loads many more times,” shouted the van foreman from the other end of the arch. “Yes, it’s you I’m talkin’ to. You’re all champion mikers, every one of you. I wouldn’t give three ’apence a dozen for you, not if I was allowed to pick and choose.”

The men flushed.

“Chaps,” said Erb quickly, “there’s only one thing we might add. Shall we recommend that this old nuisance be done away with? I can easily work it in.”

“I beg to second that,” growled Payne.

“Thought you wasn’t taking any suggestions?” remarked the elderly carman.

“This is more than a suggestion,” said Erb masterfully. “Are we all agreed?” The men held up their hands, shoulder high. “Much obliged! Payne, after you with that pen.”

Many of the van boys had snatched the opportunity to have a furtive game of banker with picture cards, but William Henry stood precisely at the tail of his mate’s van, responding in no way to the raillery of his young comrades, who, in their efforts to move him from the path of good behaviour, exhausted a limited stock of adjectives, and a generous supply of nouns. To William Henry, as a safe lad, was entrusted the duty of taking the long envelope to the Chief’s office, and his quick ears having gained something of the nature of the communication, he ran, and meeting the Chief at the door of the private office, gave it up with the message, “Answer wanted sharp, sir!” a gratuitous remark, ill-calculated to secure for it an amiable reception.

The labour member who had given to Erb a golden compliment on the previous evening had many proud titles; he was accustomed to say that the one he prized highest was that of “a manager of men,” and, indeed, the labour member had lost the colour of his hair and added lines to his face by piloting many a strike, guiding warily many a lock-out, but he had been rewarded by the universal acknowledgment that he could induce the men to do as he wished them to do; having gained this position, any idea of revolt against his command appeared, on the face of it, preposterous. It pleased Erb, as he drove his soberly-behaved horse and his van through the City to commence deliveries in the Pimlico district, to think that he, too, at the very outset, had impressed the colleagues with a confident manner. It was fine to see the wavering minds pin themselves to his superior direction, and give to him the duty of leading. He rehearsed to himself, as he drove along the Embankment, the speech which he would make when they held a meeting consequent on a refusal of the application; one sentence that came to his mind made him glow with delight, and he felt sure it had occurred to no one before. “United we must succeed; divided we most certainly shall fail!” He talked himself into such a state of ecstasy (William Henry, the while, swinging out by the rope, and repelling the impertinent action of boys driving shop cycles, who desired to economise labour by holding on at the rear of the van), that when he drove his thoughtful horse round by the Houses of Parliament it seemed to him that if the House were sitting he had almost achieved the right to get down and go in there and vote. At his first delivery to a contumacious butler, ill-tempered from an impudent attempt on the part of his master to cut down expenses, recalled Erb to his actual position in life, and as he went on Grosvenor Road way he was again a carman at twenty-three shillings and sixpence a week. Later, at a coffee shop which proclaimed itself “A Good Pull-up for Carmen,” and added proudly, “Others Compete, Few Equal, None Excel,” he stopped for lunch, having by that time nearly finished his first round of deliveries.

He shouted an order of “Bag on!” to William Henry, and, stepping down, went inside. Other drivers from other companies were in the coffee-house, and Erb, taking a seat in one of the pews, listened with tolerant interest to their confused arguments. All the variously uniformed men had a grievance, and all were quite certain that something ought to be done. The least vague of all the preferred solutions came from a North Western man, who said that “We must be up and doing.”

“The great thing is,” went on the North Western man, encouraged by the absence of contradiction, “to keep on pegging away.”

“Which way?” asked the carman at the end of the room.“That,” said the North Western man modestly, “that it is not for me to decide. I leave that to wiser men than me. I candidly confess that I’m not one of your busybodies.”

“Seems to me,” remarked a Great Western man, cutting the thick bacon on his bread gloomily, “that every other department’s getting a look in excepting the drivers. We’re out of sight part of the day, and out of mind all the day. Take my own case. I’ve got children growing up, and I find,” here the Great Western man rapped the handle end of his knife on the table, “I find they all want boots.”

“What can I get for you?” said the matronly waitress, coming down the aisle.

“I didn’t call you, my dear. I was only arguin’.”

“Man-like!” said the waitress, going back to the kitchen.

“I find ’em in boots,” went on the man, “but do I ever ’ave a chance of seeing the kids ’cept Sunday?” A murmur of anticipatory agreement with the coming answer went round. “My youngest is about a year old, and takes notice in a manner that’s simply wonderful—my wife says so, everybody says so, but he forgets me from one Sunday to another, and screams like anything when he catches sight of me.”

“P’raps you smile at him, old man?”

“And that’s why I agree,” concluded the Great Western man earnestly, “that some’ing ought to be done. Has anybody got ’alf a pipe of ’bacca to spare?”

“What we want,” remarked the North Western man, “is a chap that’ll persuade us to—”

“Yes, but—after you with the metch, old sort—but where is he?”

Erb closed the black shiny bag which his sister Louisa had packed and stood out in the gangway between the pews. He held his peaked cap in his hand, and fingered at the brass buttons of his waistcoat.

“I’ve took the liberty of listening,” he said, speaking slowly, “to the remarks you chaps have been making, and if there’s two minutes to spare, I should like to offer my views. I sha’n’t take more’n two minutes.”

“Fire away,” said the others, leaning out of their pews.

“Let me first of all preface my observations by telling you what we have done only this morning at my place. We have simply—” Erb described the procedure; the men listened interestedly. “And now let me tell you, friends, what we propose to do when this round robin of ours gets the usual sort of answer. We shall fix on a certain morning—this is in confidence, mind. We shall resolve upon a certain, definite, and final course of action. Then it’ll be war, and we shall find out who’s master.”

“And s’posing they are?”

“They would stand no chance,” cried Erb, “if we could but preserve a united front. But you’re too nervous, all of you, to do that. You’ve been tied up, hand and foot, too long to know how to move. It will be for us at our place to show you a lead, and I can only ’ope for your sakes that when we prove successful you will ’ave the common-sense, the energy, and the intelligence to go and do likewise. Meanwhile, so long!”

He punched at the inside of his peaked cap and strode out of the doorway, an exit that would have been dignified had not the stout waitress hurried down after him with a demand for fourpence-halfpenny. Even in these circumstances, he had the gratification of hearing inquiries, “Who is he, who is he?” And one commendatory remark from the North Western man, “Got his ’ead screwed on the right way.”

“Now, why ain’t you lookin’ after the van, William Henry?” asked Erb appealingly.

“I’m very sorry, mate,” said the boy, “but I never can resist the temptation of listening to you.”

Erb accepted the explanation. He climbed up to his seat, and, awakening the well-fed horse, induced him to finish the deliveries. Eventually he drove back to the station. There he heard the latest news. The Chief had sent for the Van Foreman, a cabinet council had been held, the Chief had gone now to consult the General Manager. So far, good; the dovecotes had been fluttered. He met five or six of the carmen as he waited for his second deliveries, and criticised the writing of the clerk at the booking-up desk; they were nervous now that the arrow had been shot, and they impressed upon Erb the fact that it was he who really pulled the bow. He accepted this implication of responsibility, his attitude slightly reassured the nervous. A young horse was brought up from the stables to take the place of the solemn animal, and its eccentric and sportive behaviour served to occupy Erb’s thoughts during the afternoon. He had occasion to deliver a hamper of vegetables at a house in Eaton Square, and to collect a basket of laundry, and as he waited he saw his sister Alice on the steps of her house whistling for a hansom; he would have offered assistance, only that he remembered that in the eyes of that house he was an Inspector; when a cab answered the appeal a very tall, neatly-dressed young woman came down the steps, preceded by Alice, who ran to guard the muddy wheel with a basket protector. An attractive face the tall young woman had. Erb would have thought more of it, but for the fact that at this period of his career he had determined to wave from his purview all members of the fair sex, excepting only his sisters; the work before him would not permit of the interference that women sometimes gave. He resented the fact that the lame young woman of Southwark Park would not go from his memory. Erb reproved him sharply, and ordered him to mind his own business.

“Carman Barnes. To see me here, on to-day, certain.”

This was the endorsement in red ink on the sheet of blue foolscap which had set out the grievances of the carmen, and Erb flushed with pride to find that he, and he alone, had been selected to argue the grievances of his colleagues with the Chief of the department. The men appeared not to grudge him the honour, and the van foreman held himself austerely in a corner, declining to open his mouth, as though fearful of disclosing an important state secret. Erb thought it diplomatic to ask the others whether they had any suggestions to offer for the coming debate (this without any intention of accepting advice); they all declared moodily that it was he who had led them into trouble, and his, therefore, should be the task of getting them out. Payne wished him good luck, but appeared to have no great confidence in his own powers of prophecy. Erb washed in a zinc pail, parted his obstinate hair carefully with the doubtful assistance given by a cheap pocket mirror which William Henry always carried, and, watched by the carmen and chaffed by the casually interested porters and clerks, he went to endure that experience of an interview with the Chief, known as “going on the carpet.” The Chief was engaged for the moment; would Carman Barnes please wait for a few moments? It happened that Erb himself was boiling for the consultation, and this enforced delay of a few moments, which grew into ten minutes, disconcerted him; when at last a shorthand clerk came out, and he was admitted into the presence, some of his warm confidence had cooled. The Chief, a big, polite, good-tempered man, sat at the table signing letters.

“Shan’t keep you half a second,” he remarked, looking up.

“Very good, sir.”

“Beautiful weather,” said the Chief absently, as he read, “for the time of the year.”

“We can’t complain, sir,” said Erb meaningly, “of the weather.” The clock up high on the wall of the office ticked on, and Erb endeavoured to marshal his arguments in his mind afresh.

“That little job is finished,” said the Chief, dabbing the blotting paper on his last signature. “I wonder how many times I sign my name in the course of a day; if only I had as many sovereigns. Let me see, what was it we wanted to talk to each other about?” Erb produced the memorial, and stood cap in hand as the Chief read it with an air that suggested no previous knowledge of the communication. “Oh, yes,” said the Chief, “of course. I remember now. Something about the hours of duty.”

“And wages,” said Erb, “et cetera.”

“I get so much to think of,” went on the Chief, autobiographically, “that unless I put it all down on a memo I forget about it. Now when I was your age. What are you, Barnes?”

“Twenty-one next birthday, sir.”

“Ah,” sighed the Chief, “a fine thing to be one and twenty, you’ve got all the world before you. You ought to be as happy as a lord at your age.”“The ’appiness that a lord would extract from twenty-three and six a week would go in a waistcoat pocket.”

“There’s something in that,” admitted the other, cheerfully. “But, bless my soul, there are plenty worse off. A man can grub along very well on it so long as he is not ambitious.”

“And why shouldn’t a man be ambitious?” demanded Erb. “Some people raise themselves up from small beginnings”—the Chief took up his paper cutter—“and all honour to them for it.” The Chief laid down the paper cutter. “It must be a great satisfaction to look back when they are getting their three or four ’undred a year and think of the time when they were getting only a quid a week. It must make ’em proud of themselves, and their wife and their women folk must be proud of ’em too.”

“Married, Barnes?”

“No, sir. Live with my sister.”

“Engaged perhaps?”

“Not on twenty-three and six.”

Difficult to use the well-rehearsed arguments and the violent phrases to a courteous man, who showed so much personal interest. If he would but raise his voice or show defiant want of sympathy.

“But some of us are married, sir,” Erb went on, “and some of us have children, and I tell you straight, when the rent is paid, and when the children’s clothes are bought and just the necessaries of life are purchased, there’s precious little left over. You can’t realise perhaps, sir, what it means to look at every penny, and look at it hard, before it’s paid away.”

“Pick up a bit, don’t you, you carmen?”

“An occasional twopence,” cried Erb, “and think what a degrading thing it is for some of us to accept voluntary contributions from those placed in a more fortunate position in life?”

“Never knew a railway man object to it before,” mused the Chief.

“You’re thinking of the old school, sir. Men are beginning to recognise that capital can’t do without them, and capital must therefore fork out accordingly. This memorial which you hold at the present time in your ’and, sir, contains a moderate appeal. If that moderate appeal is refused, I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”

“And yet, I take it, you know more about the consequences than anyone else?”

“Be that as it may, sir,” said Erb, flattered, “we needn’t go into hypo—hypo—”

“Hypothetical?”

“Thank you, sir. We needn’t go into that part of the question at present. But it’s only fair to warn you that when I go back to the men and tell them that their very reasonable applications have been one and all refused, and refused, if I may say so, with ignominy, then there’ll be such an outbreak. Mind you, sir, I’m not blaming you; I only talk to you in this way, because ’ere’s me representing labour on this side of the table, and there’s you on the other side of the table representing capital.”

“Labour,” remarked the Chief, trying to make a tent of three pen holders, “is to be congratulated.”

“Therefore, not wishing to take up your time any longer, I should like to conclude by remarking in the language of one of our poets of old, who remarks—”

“No, no,” protested the Chief gently, “don’t let us drag in the poets. They were all very well in their way, but really you know, not railway men. Not one of them. What I want you to tell the others is that if I had the power of deciding on this matter, likely enough I should give them everything they ask. But above me, Barnes, above me is the Superintendent, above the Superintendent is the General Manager, above the General Manager are the Directors, and above the Directors are the Shareholders.”

“And all of you a stamping down on poor us.”

“To a certain extent,” admitted the Chief, in his friendly way, “but only to a certain extent. What they want, what I want, is that everything should go on smoothly.”

“To come to the point,” suggested Erb. “I take it that you answer this application, sir, in the negative. I take it that I’m to go back to the men and say to them, ‘All my efforts on your behalf have been fruitless.’”

“Your efforts?”“My efforts,” said Erb proudly.

“You are mainly responsible then?”

“I don’t deny it.”

“I see,” said the Chief, slowly pulling the feathers from a quill pen. “My information was to that effect, but it is well to have it confirmed by you. Now look here, Barnes.” He took up the sheet of blue foolscap, with a change of manner. “The men ask for the removal of the van foreman. That suggestion will not be acted upon. If we were all to be allowed to choose our own masters we should be playing a nice topsy-turvy game. You understand?”

“I’ve taken a note of it,” remarked Erb darkly. He wrote something with a short pencil on the back of an envelope. “Negative answer also, I s’pose, to the question of hours?”

“Not so fast. In regard to the question of hours some concession will be made. They have increased of late without my knowledge. The men will take it in turns, in batches of three or four, to go off duty at six o’clock one week in the month. This will necessitate a couple of extra carmen.”

“Good!” approved Erb, making a fresh note. “We now approach the question of wages.”

“The men who have been in the service for five years will receive an additional two shillings a week.”

“That’s a fair offer.”

“The men who have been with us for more than a year will, with one exception, receive an increase of one and six.”

Erb wrote the figures on the back of the envelope. Already he was composing in his mind the elaborate sentences by which he would make the satisfactory announcement to his colleagues. A telephone bell in the corner of the office stung the ear; the Chief rose, and bidding Erb wait outside for a few minutes, went to answer it. Erb closed the door after him in order to avoid any suspicion of overhearing, and, big with the important news, could not resist the temptation to hurry through into the arch where the men in a group were waiting; the van foreman sat on a high stool in the corner, in an attitude that suggested contrition.

“Well, chaps,” said Payne, when Erb, in one long, ornate sentence had given the information, “this is a little bit of all right. I think I’m speaking the general opinion when I say we’re very much indebted to Erb for all the trouble he’s took.”

“Hear, hear!” said the men cheerfully.

“I could see from the first,” remarked the eldest carman, “that he meant to pull it off for us.”

“The occasion being special,” said Payne, bunching his short, red beard in one hand, “I think we might all of us treat ourselves to a tonic.”

“Not me,” said Erb. “I’ve got to get back just to say a few words to the gov’nor. But don’t let me stop you chaps from ’aving one.”

“You won’t!” remarked Payne with candour.

The conversation at the telephone was still going on when Erb returned to the Chief’s office; some time having been occupied, apparently, with the usual preliminaries of one party begging the other to speak up, and the other urging on the first the advisability of seeking some remedy for increasing deafness. The Chief rang off presently, and came to the door and opened it.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Barnes.”

“Was there anything else you wanted to say, sir?”

“Only this. I told you there was one exception in this scheme of increases.”

“Everitt is a bit too fond of the glass, sir, but p’raps a word of warning from you—”

“Everitt drinks, but Everitt does his work quietly, and he doesn’t disturb the other men. The one exception, Barnes, is yourself.”

“Me?” exclaimed Erb.

“It’s like this,” said the Chief, going on with the work of plucking a quill pen. “You’re a restless organiser, and no doubt somewhere in the world there is a place for you. But not here, Barnes, not here! Of course, we don’t want to sack you, but if you don’t mind looking out for another berth—No hurry, you know, next week will do—why—”

The Chief threw down the stark quill pen; intimation that the conference was at an end.

“I’m not the first martyr that’s suffered in the cause of right and justice,” said Erb, his face white, “and I’m probably not the last. I take this as a distinct encouragement, sir, to go on in the path that Fate has mapped out for me, ever striving, I trust, not so much to improve my own personal position, as to better—”

“Shut the door after you,” said the Chief, “and close it quietly, there’s a good chap.”