They silently objected to his looking, so he went on. He had come to the huge, high timbers of the tall jetty. There stood the little engine still overhead: and in the gloom among the timbers underneath water was dripping down from her, which gave Somers a distaste for passing just then. He looked up. There was the engine-driver in his dirty shirt and dirty bare arms, talking to another man. The other man saluted--and to Somers’ surprise it was William James. He stood quite still, and a surprised smile of recognition greeted the other man, who saluted. “Why, what are you doing here?” called Somers. William James came to the edge of the jetty, but could not hear, because of the noise of the sea. His face had that small, subtle smile that was characteristic of him, and which Somers was never quite sure of, whether it was really jeering or in a cunning way friendly. “Won’t you come up a minute?” roared William James. So Somers scrambled round up the banks, on to the railway track. “I couldn’t come down for the moment,” said William James. “I’ll have to see the manager, then I’m going off on this boat. We’re ready to go. You heard her blowing.” “Where are you going? Back to Sydney.” “Yes. I come down occasionally on this coal-business, and if I like I go back on the collier. The sea is quiet, and I needn’t wait for a train. Well, an’ how’re you gettin’ on, like? Pleased with it down here all by yourselves?” “Very.” “A bit lonely for you. I suppose you wouldn’t like to know the manager here--Mr Thomas? He’s a decent chap--from South Wales originally.” “No. I like it best when I don’t know anybody.” “That’s a compliment for some of us. However--I know what you mean. I know what you mean. Jack tells me you saw Kangaroo. Made quite a fuss of you, I hear. I knew he would. Oh, Kangaroo knew all about you: all he wanted to know, anyhow. I say, if ye think of stoppin’ down here, you might get in a ton of coal. It looks as if this strike might come off. That Arbitration Board’s a fine failure, what?” “As far as I gather.” “Oh, bound to be. Bound to be. They talk about scraps of paper, why, every agreement that’s ever come to in this country, you could wrap your next red herring in it, for all it’s worth.” “I suppose it’s like Ireland, they don’t want to agree.” “That’s about it. The Labour people want this revolution of theirs. What?”--and he looked at Somers with a long, smiling, sardonic leer, like a wink. “There’s a certain fact,” he continued, “as far as any electioneering success goes, they’re out of the running for a spell. What do you think of Trades Unions, one way and another?” “I dislike them on the whole rather intensely. They’re just the nastiest profiteering side of the working man--they make a fool of him too, in my opinion.” “Just my opinion. They make a fool of him. Wouldn’t it be nice to have them for bosses of the whole country? They very nearly are. But I doubt very much if they’ll ever cover the last lap--what?”