JOSIAH gave him a look. But it was not the look he might have expected to receive. It was less the look of a vindictive parent and employer than the gesture a Chamberlain might have bestowed on a Jesse Collings or a Gladstone on a John Morley.

“You’re right, my lad—not a walk over.”

For a few minutes these great men talked on and William Hollis by sheer force of some innate capacity, now first brought to life in the stress of an overwhelming affair, talked with them as an equal. These were proud moments in which the power of vision, the understanding heart seemed to come by their own. The world was on fire, and if the flames were to be brought under control many estimates must be revised, many standards must go by the board. Self-preservation, the primal instinct, was already uppermost. Brains, foresight, mental energy were at a premium now. Any man, no matter who or what he might be, who had it in him to contribute to the common stock was more than welcome to do so. The conflagration had only just begun but a new range of ideas was already rife. Men were no longer taken on trust, institutions no longer accepted at their face value.

But all too soon for William Hollis the proceedings came to an end. He would have liked to sit there all night, tossing the ball among his peers, listening politely and now and again throwing in a word. Suddenly, however, the door of the private bar opened and a flaming-haired, shirt-sleeved appearance in a green baize apron abruptly thrust in its head. At the sight of the grandees it was thrust out again even more abruptly.

“That George?”

George it was.

“Go out and step that there Bus.” In the command of Josiah was all the power of the man of privilege, the almost superhuman authority of a city alderman. Bill Hollis, who had once worn the green apron himself, was thrilled by the recollection that even in his day, when Josiah was first elected to the town council, the public vehicle plying for hire between Jubilee Park and the Market Place was always at the beck and call of Mr. Councilor Munt. Few had a good word for him, but even in those days in that part of the city his word was law.

Josiah rose and his friends rose with him. But as he moved to the door he turned a dour eye upon Bill Hollis. Whole volumes were in it, beyond tongue or pen to utter. To-night even he, in the stress of what was happening to the world in which he had prospered so greatly, was less than himself and also more. An eye of wary truculence pinned the ex-barman to the wainscot while the master of the house uttered his slow, unwilling growl. “Not a bad bloom ye sent in, my lad.”

It was a very big dog to a very little dog, but somehow it told far more than was intended. Almost in spite of himself, the man who on a day had abused the confidence of his master by marrying his eldest daughter was forced to realize that no matter what Josiah Munt might be, he was ... well, he was Jannock!

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