Hewett’s eyes grew large and the muscles of his mouth contracted.
“Where’s Jenkins?” he asked abruptly. “I suppose he can explain it?”
“No, by God, he can’t! He won’t say nothing, but he’s been runnin’ about all yesterday and to-day, lookin’ precious queer.”
Without paying any further attention to Snowdon, John left the room with his companion, and they went upstairs. Most of the men present were members of the Burial Club in question, an institution of some fifteen years’ standing and in connection with the club which met here for social and political purposes; they were in the habit, like John Hewett, of depositing their coppers weekly, thus insuring themselves or their relatives for a sum payable at death. The rumour that something was wrong, that the secretary M’Cosh could not be found, began to create a disturbance; presently the nigger entertainment came to an end, and the Burial Club was the sole topic of conversation.
On the morrow it was an ascertained fact
