had grabbed, and, having
done them up hastily in newspaper, had bolted with them out of the
house. He had been fined heavily for slackness during the week, and Mr.
Button's inevitable wrath at docked wages he desired to undergo as late
as possible. Then, the sun had blazed furiously during the last six
imprisoned days, and now the long-looked for hours of freedom were
disfigured by rain and blight. He resented the malice of things. He
also resented the invasion of his brickfield by an alien van, a gaudy
vehicle, yellow and red, to the exterior of which clinging wicker
chairs, brooms, brushes and jute mats gave the impression of a
lunatic's idea of decoration. An old horse, hobbled a few feet away,
philosophically cropped the abominable grass. On the front of the van a
man squatted with food and drink. Paul hated him as a trespasser and a
gormandizer.

Presently the man, shading his eyes with his hand, scrutinized the
small, melancholy figure, and then, hopping from his perch, sped toward
him with a nimble and curiously tortuous gait.

He approached, a wiry, almost wizened, little man of fifty, tanned to
gipsy brown. He had a shrewd thin face, with an oddly flattened nose,
and little round moist dark eyes that glittered like diamonds. He wore
cloth cap on the back of his head, showing in front a thick mass of
closely cropped hair. His collarless shirt was open at the neck and his
sleeves were rolled up above the elbow.

"You're Polly Kegworthy's kid, ain't you?" he asked.

"Ay," said Paul.

"Seen you afore, haven't I?" Then Paul remembered. Three or four times
during his life, at long, long intervals, the van had passed down Budge
Street, stopping at houses here and there. About two years ago, coming
home, he had met it at his own door. His mother and the little man were
talking together. The man had taken him under the chin and twisted his
face up. "Is that the nipper?" he had asked.

His mother had nodded, and, releasing Paul with a clumsy gesture of
simulated affection, had sent him with twopence for a pint of beer to
the public-house at the end of the street. He recalled how the man had
winked his little bright eye at his mother before putting the jug to
his lips.

"I browt th' beer for yo'," said Paul.

"You did. It was the worst beer, bar none, I've ever had. I can taste
it now." He made a wry face. Then he cocked his head on one side. "I
suppose you're wondering who I am?" said he.

"Ay," said Paul. "