int that you can scrape off those
things and any other old paint or rubbish that's here, and whenever it
grows dull put more wood on. There's a lot of old stuff here that's of
no use except to be thrown away or burnt. Burn it all. If Hunter says
anything, tell him that I lit the fire, and that I told you to keep it
burning. If you want more wood, go out and take it.'

'All right,' replied Bert.

On his way out Owen spoke to Sawkins. His manner was so menacing, his
face so pale, and there was such a strange glare in his eyes, that the
latter thought of the talk there had been about Owen being mad, and
felt half afraid of him.

'I am going to the office to see Rushton; if Hunter comes here, you say
I told you to tell him that if I find the boy in that shop again
without a fire, I'll report it to the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Children. And as for you, if the boy comes out here to get
more wood, don't you attempt to interfere with him.'

'I don't want to interfere with the bloody kid,' grunted Sawkins. 'It
seems to me as if he's gorn orf 'is bloody crumpet,' he added as he
watched Owen walking rapidly down the street. 'I can't understand why
people can't mind their own bloody business: anyone would think the boy
belonged to 'IM.'

That was just how the matter presented itself to Owen. The idea that
it was his own child who was to be treated in this way possessed and
infuriated him as he strode savagely along. In the vicinity of the
Slave Market on the Grand Parade he passed--without seeing
them--several groups of unemployed artisans whom he knew. Some of them
were offended and remarked that he was getting stuck up, but others,
observing how strange he looked, repeated the old prophecy that one of
these days Owen would go out of his mind.

As he drew near to his destination large flakes of snow began to fall.
He walked so rapidly and was in such a fury that by the time he reached
the shop he was scarcely able to speak.

'Is--Hunter--or Rushton here?' he demanded of the shopman.

'Hunter isn't, but the guv'nor is. What was it you wanted?'

'He'll soon--know--that,' panted Owen as he strode up to the office
door, and without troubling to knock, flung it violently open and
entered.

The atmosphere of this place was very different from that of the damp
cellar where Bert was working. A grate fitted with asbestos blocks and
lit with gas communicated a genial warmth to the air.

Rushton was