lub by his familiar bore.

'So your friend Shergold is dead?'

'Dead? I know nothing of it.'

'Really? They talked of it last night at Lady Teasdale's. He died a few
days ago, at Calcutta. Dysentery, or something of that kind. His wife
cabled to some one or other.'

THE SALT OF THE EARTH

Strong and silent the tide of Thames flowed upward, and over it swept the
morning tide of humanity. Through white autumnal mist yellow sunbeams
flitted from shore to shore. The dome, the spires, the river frontages
slowly unveiled and brightened: there was hope of a fair day.

Not that it much concerned this throng of men and women hastening to their
labour. From near and far, by the league-long highways of South London,
hither they converged each morning, and joined the procession across the
bridge; their task was the same to-day as yesterday, regardless of gleam or
gloom. Many had walked such a distance that they plodded wearily, looking
neither to right nor left. The more vigorous strode briskly on, elbowing
their way, or nimbly skipping into the road to gain advance; yet these also
had a fixed gaze, preoccupied or vacant, seldom cheerful. Here and there a
couple of friends conversed; girls, with bag or parcel and a book for the
dinner hour, chattered and laughed; but for the most part lips were mute
amid the clang and roar of heavy-laden wheels.

It was the march of those who combat hunger with delicate hands: at the
pen's point, or from behind the breastwork of a counter, or trusting to
bare wits pressed daily on the grindstone. Their chief advantage over the
sinewy class beneath them lay in the privilege of spending more than they
could afford on house and clothing; with rare exceptions they had no hope,
no chance, of reaching independence; enough if they upheld the threadbare
standard of respectability, and bequeathed it to their children as a
solitary heirloom. The oldest looked the poorest, and naturally so; amid
the tramp of multiplying feet, their steps had begun to lag when speed was
more than ever necessary; they saw newcomers outstrip them, and trudged
under an increasing load.

No eye surveying this procession would have paused for a moment on Thomas
Bird. In costume there was nothing to distinguish him from hundreds of
rather shabby clerks who passed along with their out-of-fashion chimney-pot
and badly rolled umbrella; his gait was that of a man who takes no exercise
beyond the daily walk to and from hi