Uncle Isaac, with a bounteous air that scarce covered his reluctance, pulled out a screw of paper, and Mr. Butson filled his pipe. For some little way he smoked in silence, for tobacco was an uncommon luxury with him just now, and he enjoyed a succession of puffs with no interruption. Then he said, “Workin’ at Turton’s now?” “No,” Uncle Isaac replied, with a slight cough. “I—no, I ain’t workin’ there.” “Thought not. Looked out for y’ often. An’ you moved too.” Butson smoked again for a space, and then went on. “I’ve ’ad a pretty awful year,” he said. “Why I was very near goin’ stokin’ once or twice.” (He had not quite gone, because the chief engineer always sent him ashore.) “Nice thing, that, for a man o’ my bringin’-up.” They walked on. Truly the bad year had left its marks on Mr. Butson. The soles were three-quarters gone from his boots, and the uppers were cracked. He wore a mixture of ordinary and working clothes, frayed and greasy and torn, and he shivered under a flimsy dungaree jacket, buttoned so close to the neck as to hint an absence of shirt. His bowler hat was weather-beaten and cracked, and the brim behind was beginning to leave the crown because of rain-rot. Presently Uncle Isaac, impelled to say something, asked, “Bin out all the time?” “Very near. Got a job on a ’draulic, but the chap began jawin’ me about somethin’. I wasn’t goin’ to stand that, so I just walked out.” “Nothin’ else?” “Not much. One or two things I got on to, but they didn’t last. Know the laundry over the Cut? Well they took me on there to run the engine, an’ sacked me in a week. Said I was asleep! Measly swine. Much the same at other places. Seemed to want to treat me like—like any common feller. But I showed ’em different to that!” “Ah!” commented Uncle Isaac absently. He was wondering which way to lead the walk, and how to take leave of his companion. But his invention was at a stand, and presently the other went on. “Well,” he said, “you ain’t got so much to say as you used. Know any job you can put me on to?” “No, I don’t,” replied Uncle Isaac with gloomy simplicity. “Trade’s bad—very bad. I bin workin’ short time meself, an’ standin’ auf day after day. Stood auf to-day.” “Well then, lend us a bob.” Uncle Isaac started, and made the space between them a foot wider. “Reely, Mr. Butson, I—” “All right, make it two bob then, if you’d rather. You’ve ’ad more ’n that out o’ me one time an’ another.” “But—but I tell you I’m unfort’net meself. I bin standin’ auf day after day—” “Seems to me you’re tryin’ to stand auf as much as ye can now. Look ’ere.” Mr. Butson stood and faced Uncle Isaac. “I’m broke, clean broke, an’ worse. I’m ’ungry.” “It’s—it’s very bad,” said Uncle Isaac. “But why not go t’ yer rich relations?” Butson frowned. “Never mind them,” he said. “I’d rather try an’ tap your small property. What am I to do? I’m at the end of me tether, an’ I’ve tried everything.”