Inman bided his time but never moved his eyes from the other’s face, and in the steely concentrated gaze there was a suggestion of hypnotic power. Interpreting the master’s hesitation as a sign of wavering he went on in a firm but studiously respectful voice: “I’ll do a job whilst yon chap’s planning it out. I’ll do in five minutes what’ll take him twenty, and do it right too. Yon chap’s too slow to go to his own funeral.” “Where d’you come from?” Mr. Briggs growled. “From Scaleber,” he said, offering the tag end of truth. “My name’s James Inman and luck sent me here—your luck and mine. I came to seek a job with you, and when I heard you sack yon ninny I knew I’d come in the nick of time.” “Oh, did you?” replied Mr. Briggs sharply. “It takes two to make a bargain, young fellow, and I wouldn’t be too sure o’ that. Trade’s slack just now and I’m thinking I can do without another man for a week or two till it mends. I’ll sleep on it, anyway.” Inman saw the mouth tighten and read the sign. He had already recognised and regretted his blunder and was feeling round for another starting point when Jagger re-appeared from the shed at the back with his “bass” over his shoulder, and without even looking in their direction walked smartly down the road. A red flush tinged the sallow features of the master and again Inman read the sign. “Ought to work for a woman, he did,” he observed with a sneer; “man milliner, or something o’ that sort.” Mr. Briggs’ expression was ugly. “Come inside,” he said. Inman’s eyes swept the workshop with a swift, comprehensive glance. “American machines,” he said to himself; “old Hotspur isn’t altogether a Rip Van Winkle.” The office was upstairs and the master led the way there. An oil lamp was burning on a table and by its light Mr. Briggs scanned the newcomer’s face. “You’re a joiner by trade?” he inquired. The other nodded. “I’ve papers, if you care to see them,” he said; and tossed a packet on to the desk against which the master was leaning. “What makes you come here if you’re such a dab hand as all that?” he asked suspiciously when he had read one or two of the documents. “Been a bit of a rolling stone, haven’t you?” “I’m moorland born,” Inman replied, “and town life doesn’t suit me. Now I’m getting older I sort o’ want to settle down.” Mr. Briggs scowled. He did not like glibness, and the young man was an adept in that smooth art. All strangers were under suspicion, and a stranger who turned up from nowhere in time to step into another man’s shoes—a stranger who travelled so light that he had not even a spare collar for his neck, and whose tone was domineering although under control, was doubly suspicious. Mr. Briggs stared steadily and thoughtfully at his visitor, and frowned until his eyes were almost hidden by the pepper-coloured tufts of hair that overhung them. Inman bore the scrutiny well and made his face expressionless.