inued, as it
caused the men to waste their time.

But the event of the year was the Beano, which took place on the last
Saturday in August, after they had been paying in for about four
months. The cost of the outing was to be five shillings a head, so
this was the amount each man had to pay in, but it was expected that
the total cost--the hire of the brakes and the cost of the
dinner--would come out at a trifle less than the amount stated, and in
that case the surplus would be shared out after the dinner. The amount
of the share-out would be greater or less according to other
circumstances, for it generally happened that apart from the
subscriptions of the men, the Beano fund was swelled by charitable
donations from several quarters, as will be seen later on.

When the eventful day arrived, the hands, instead of working till one,
were paid at twelve o'clock and rushed off home to have a wash and
change.

The brakes were to start from the 'Cricketers' at one, but it was
arranged, for the convenience of those who lived at Windley, that they
were to be picked up at the Cross Roads at one-thirty.

There were four brakes altogether--three large ones for the men and one
small one for the accommodation of Mr Rushton and a few of his personal
friends, Didlum, Grinder, Mr Toonarf, an architect and Mr Lettum, a
house and estate Agent. One of the drivers was accompanied by a friend
who carried a long coachman's horn. This gentleman was not paid to
come, but, being out of work, he thought that the men would be sure to
stand him a few drinks and that they would probably make a collection
for him in return for his services.

Most of the chaps were smoking twopenny cigars, and had one or two
drinks with each other to try to cheer themselves up before they
started, but all the same it was a melancholy procession that wended
its way up the hill to Windley. To judge from the mournful expression
on the long face of Misery, who sat on the box beside the driver of the
first large brake, and the downcast appearance of the majority of the
men, one might have thought that it was a funeral rather than a
pleasure party, or that they were a contingent of lost souls being
conducted to the banks of the Styx. The man who from time to time
sounded the coachman's horn might have passed as the angel sounding the
last trump, and the fumes of the cigars were typical of the smoke of
their torment, which ascendeth up for ever and ever.

A bri