to get out in time in the morning. And I ain't a-going to wait for
yer, I tell yer straight."

"I'll be back," said Paul.

"Don't believe it. Good mind not to let yer go."

The touch of genius suddenly brushed the boy's forehead. He drew from
his pockets the handful of silver and copper that was his week's wages,
and, groping in the darkness, poured it over Barney Bill. "Then keep
that for me till I coom back."

He fumbled hurriedly for the latch of the van door, found it, and
leaped out into the waste under the stars, just as the owner of the van
rose with a clatter of coins. To pick up money is a deeply rooted human
instinct. Barney Bill lit his lamp, and, uttering juicy though
innocuous flowers of anathema, searched for the scattered treasure.
When he had retrieved three shillings and sevenpence-halfpenny he
peered out. Paul was far away. Barney Bill put the money on the shelf
and looked at it in a puzzled way. Was it an earnest of the boy's
return, or was it a bribe to let him go? The former hypothesis seemed
untenable, for if he got nabbed his penniless condition would be such
an aggravation of his offence as to call down upon him a more ferocious
punishment than he need have risked. And why in the name of sanity did
he want to go home? To kiss his sainted mother in her sleep? To pack
his blankety portmanteau? Barney Bill's fancy took a satirical turn. On
the latter hypothesis, the boy was in deadly fear, and preferred the
certainty of the ferocious punishment to the terrors of an unknown
future. Barney Bill smoked a reflective pipe, looking at the matter
from the two points of view. Not being able to decide, he put out his
lamp, shut his door and went to sleep.

Dawn awoke him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Paul was not there. He
did not expect him to be there. He felt sorry. The poor little kid had
funked it. He had hoped for better stuff. He rose and stretched
himself, put on socks and boots, lit his cooking stove, set a kettle to
boil and, opening the door, remained for a while breathing the misty
morning air. Then he let himself down and proceeded to the back of the
van, where stood a pail of water and a tin basin, his simple washing
apparatus. Having sluiced bead and neck and dried them with something
resembling a towel, he hooked up the pail, stowed the basin in a rack,
unslung a nosebag, which he attached to the head of the old horse, and
went indoors to prepare his own elementary breakfast. That ove