rinned.

"Arvie's getting balmier than ever," guffawed young Bill.

"Here, Carstor Hoil," cried one of the smiths' strikers, "how much oil
will you take for a chew of terbaccer?"

"Teaspoonful?"

"No, two."

"All right; let's see the chew, first."

"Oh, you'll get it. What yer frighten' of?... Come on, chaps, 'n' see
Bill drink oil."

Bill measured out some machine oil and drank it. He got the tobacco, and
the others got what they called "the fun of seein' Bill drink oil!"

The second bell rang, and Bill went up to the other end of the shop,
where Arvie was already at work sweeping shavings from under a bench.

The young terror seated himself on the end of this bench, drummed his
heels against the leg, and whistled. He was in no hurry, for his foreman
had not yet arrived. He amused himself by lazily tossing chips at
Arvie, who made no protest for a while. "It would be--better--for this
country," said the young terror, reflectively and abstractedly, cocking
his eye at the whitewashed roof beams and feeling behind him on the
bench for a heavier chip--"it would be better--for this country--if
young fellers didn't think so much about--about--racin'--AND fightin'."

"You let me alone," said Arvie.

"Why, what'll you do?" exclaimed Bill, bringing his eye down with
feigned surprise. Then, in an indignant tone, "I don't mind takin' a
fall out of yer, now, if yer like."

Arvie went on with his work. Bill tossed all the chips within reach, and
then sat carelessly watching some men at work, and whistling the "Dead
March". Presently he asked:

"What's yer name, Balmy?"

No answer.

"Carn't yer answer a civil question? I'd soon knock the sulks out of yer
if I was yer father."

"My name's Arvie; you know that."

"Arvie what?"

"Arvie Aspinall."

Bill cocked his eye at the roof and thought a while and whistled; then
he said suddenly:

"Say, Balmy, where d'yer live?"

"Jones' Alley."

"What?"

"Jones' Alley."

A short, low whistle from Bill. "What house?"

"Number Eight."

"Garn! What yer giv'nus?"

"I'm telling the truth. What's there funny about it? What do I want to
tell you a lie for?"

"Why, we lived there once, Balmy. Old folks livin'?"

"Mother is; father's dead."

Bill scratched the back of his head, protruded his under lip, and
reflected.

"I say, Arvie, what did yer father die of?"

"Heart disease. He dropped down dead at his work."

Long, low, intense whistle from Bill. He wrin