sir. But I see how it'll be. My poor
sister'll end in the work'us. Allchin'll never keep a place. Not that I
can blame him, sir, for givin' it to that Boxon, 'cause every one says
he's a brute."

"Well, just let me know if they begin to be in want. But of course
Allchin can always get work as a porter. He must learn to keep his
fists down, if he doesn't want to be perpetually out of employment."

"That's what I tell him, sir. And my poor sister, sir, she's never
stopped talkin' to him, day or night you may say, ever since it
happened--"

"Merciful Heavens!" groaned Warburton to himself.

CHAPTER 7

At half-past nine he reached Little Ailie Street.

"Mr. Sherwood not here yet, I suppose?" asked Will.

"Oh yes, he is, sir," replied the manager; "been here for half an hour."

Warburton went on to the senior partner's room. There sat Godfrey
Sherwood bent over a book which, to judge from the smile upon his face,
could have nothing to do with the sugar-refining question.

"How do, Will?" he exclaimed, with even more than his usual
cheerfulness. "Did you ever read 'The Adventures of a Younger Son'? Oh,
you must. Listen here. He's describing how he thrashed an assistant
master at school; thrashed him, he says, till 'the sweat dropped from
his brows like rain-drops from the eaves of a pig-sty!' Ho-ho-ho! What
do you think of that for a comparison? Isn't it strong? By Jove! a
bracing book! Trelawny, you know; the friend of Byron. As breezy a book
as I know. It does one good."

Godfrey Sherwood was, as regards his visage, what is called a plain
young man, but his smile told of infinite good-nature, and his voice,
notwithstanding its frequent note of energy or zeal, had a natural
softness of intonation which suggested other qualities than the
practical and vigorous.

"Enjoyed your holiday?" he went on, rising, stretching himself, and
offering a box of cigarettes. "You look well. Done any summits? When we
get our affairs in order, I must be off somewhere myself. Northward, I
think. I want a little bracing cold. I should like to see Iceland. You
know the Icelandic sagas? Magnificent! There's the saga of Grettir the
Strong--by Jove! But come, this isn't business. I have news for you,
real, substantial, hopeful news."

They seated themselves in roundbacked chairs, and Will lighted a
cigarette.

"You know my thoughts were running on jam; jam is our salvation; of
that I have long been convinced. I looked about,