Meanwhile, in Cardigan Street, Chook was arguing with Jonah. When told that the Push was waiting for him, he had listened without interest; the matter seemed foreign and remote. The velvety touch of his son's frail body still thrilled his nerves; its sweet, delicate odour was still in his nostrils. And he flatly refused to go. Chook was beside himself with excitement; tears stood in his eyes. "W'y, y'ain't goin' ter turn dawg on me, Jonah, are yer?" "No bleedin' fear," said Jonah; "but I feel--I dunno 'ow I feel. The blasted kid knocked me endways," he explained, in confusion. As he looked down the street, he caught sight of Mrs Yabsley on the other side. She walked slowly on account of the hill, gasping for air, the weekly load of meat and groceries clutched in her powerful arms. His eyes softened with tenderness. He felt a sudden kinship for this huge, ungainly woman. He wanted to run and meet her, and claim the sweet, straight-limbed child that he had just discovered. Chook, standing at his elbow, like the devil in the old prints, was watching him curiously. "Well, I'm off," cried Chook at last. "Wot'll I tell the blokes?" Jonah was silent for a moment, with a sombre look in his eyes. Then he pulled himself together. "Let 'er go," he cried grimly; "the kid can wait." On the stroke of eleven, as they reached the "Angel", the huge lamps were extinguished, the doors swung open and vomited a stream of men on to the footpath, their loud voices bringing the noise and heat of the bar into the quiet street. They dispersed slowly, talking immoderately, parting with the regret of lovers from the warm bar with its cheerful light and pleasant clink of glasses. The doors were closed, but the bar was still noisy, and the laggards slipped out cautiously by the side door, where a barman kept watch for the police. Presently the bricklayer came out, alone. He stood on the footpath, slightly fuddled, his giddiness increased by the fresh air. Immediately Chook lurched forward to meet him, with a drunken leer. "'Ello, Bill, fancy meetin' yous!" he mumbled. The man, swaying slightly, stared at him in a fog. "I dunno you," he muttered. "Wot, yer dunno me, as worked wid yer on that job in Kent Street? Dunno Joe Parsons, as danced wid yer missis at the bricklayers' picnic?" The man stopped to think, trying to remember, but his brain refused the effort. "Orl right," he muttered; "come an' 'ave a drink." And he turned to the bar. "No fear," cried Chook, taking him affectionately by the arm, "no more fer me! I'm full up ter the chin, an' so are yous." "Might's well 'ave another," said the man, obstinately. Chook pulled him gently away from the hotel, along the street. "It's gittin' late; 'ow'll yer ole woman rous w'en yer git 'ome?"