‘That ain’t no fault o’ Dick Mutimer’s,’ asserted the apologist. ‘He always was a bad ‘un, that ‘Arry. Why, you can say so much, Dan? No, no, I don’t ‘old with a man’s bein’ cried down cause he’s got a brother as disgraces himself. It was Dick as got him his place, an’ a good place it was. It wasn’t Dick as put him up to thievin’, I suppose?’ ‘No, no, that’s right enough,’ said Dabbs. ‘Let a man be judged by his own sayin’s and doin’s. There’s queer stories about Dick Mutimer himself, but--was it Scotch or Irish, Mike?’ Mike had planted his glass on the counter in a manner suggesting replenishment. ‘Now that’s what I call a cruel question!’ cried Mike humorously. ‘The man as doesn’t stick to his country, I don’t think much of him.’ The humour was not remarkable, but it caused a roar of laughter to go up. ‘Now what I want to know,’ exclaimed one, returning to the main subject, ‘is where Mutimer gets his money to live on. He does no work, we know that much.’ ‘He told us all about that this mornin’,’ replied the authority. ‘He has friends as keeps him goin’, that’s all. As far as I can make out it’s a sort o’ subscription.’ ‘Now, there you are!’ put in Daniel with half a sneer. ‘I don’t call that Socialism. Let a man support himself by his own work, then he’s got a right to say what he likes. No, no, _we_ know what Socialism means, eh, Tom?’ The man appealed to answered with a laugh. ‘Well, blest if I do, Dan! There’s so many kinds o’ Socialism nowadays. Which lot does he pretend to belong to? There’s the “Fiery Cross,” and there’s Roodhouse with his “Tocsin,” and now I s’pose Dick’ll be startin’ another paper of his own.’ ‘No, no,’ replied Mutimer’s supporter. ‘He holds by the “Fiery Cross” still, so he said this mornin’. I’ve no opinion o’ Roodhouse myself. He makes a deal o’ noise, but I can’t ‘see as he _does_ anything.’ ‘You won’t catch Dick Mutimer sidin’ with Roodhouse,’ remarked Daniel with a wink. ‘That’s an old story, eh, Tom?’ Thus the talk went on, and the sale of beverages kept pace with it. About eight o’clock the barmaid informed Daniel that Mrs. Clay wished to see him. Kate had entered the house by the private door, and was sitting in the bar-parlour. Daniel went to her at once. She was more slovenly in appearance than ever, and showed all the signs of extreme poverty. Her face was not merely harsh and sour, it indicated a process of degradation. The smile with which she greeted Daniel was disagreeable through excessive anxiety to be ingratiating. Her eyes were restless and shrewd. Daniel sat down opposite to her, and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Well, how’s all at ‘ome?’ he began, avoiding her look as he spoke. ‘Nothing much to boast of,’ Kate replied with an unpleasant giggle. ‘We keep alive.’ ‘Emma all right?’ ‘She’s all right, except for her bad ‘ead-aches. She’s had another of ‘em this week. But I think it’s a bit better to-day.’ ‘She’ll have a rest to-morrow.’