stick to it and there's not a chap among 'em sha'n't have his chance. Go into Greyson's room, lads, and drink luck to 'Haworth's.' Tipton and Harrison, you wait a bit."
Tipton and Harrison lingered with some degree of timidity. By the time the room had emptied itself, Haworth seemed to have fallen into a reverie. He leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, and stared gloomily before him. The room had been silent five minutes before he aroused himself with a start. Then he leaned forward and beckoned to the two, who came and stood before him.
"You two were in the place when I came," he said. "You"—to Tipton—"were the fellow as lifted me from the snow."
"Aye, mester," was the answer, "twenty year' ago, toneet."
"The other fellow——"
"Dead! Eh! Long sin'. Ivvery chap as wur theer, dead an' gone, but me an' him," with a jerk toward his comrade.
Haworth put his hand in his vest-pocket and drew forth a crisp piece of paper, evidently placed there for a purpose.
"Here," he said with some awkwardness, "divide that between you."
"Betwixt us two!" stammered the old man. "It's a ten-pun-note, mester!"
"Yes," with something like shamefacedness. "I used to say to myself when I was a youngster that every chap who was in the Works that night should have a five-pound note to-day. Get out, old lads, and get as drunk as you please. I've kept my word. But—" his laugh
