privilege of his destruction. The albino would have been better.
"You leave 'im alone," said the swart man. "See? 'E's 'ad 'is licks."
A clattering bell lifted up its voice and solved the situation. The albino hesitated. "Lucky for you," he said, adding a foul metaphor, and turned with the others towards the press-room again. "Wait for the end of the spell, mate," said the albino over his shoulder—an afterthought. The swart man waited for the albino to precede him. Denton realised that he had a reprieve.
The men passed towards an open door. Denton became aware of his duties, and hurried to join the tail of the queue. At the doorway of the vaulted gallery of presses a yellow-uniformed labour policeman stood ticking a card. He had ignored the swart man's haemorrhage.
"Hurry up there!" he said to Denton.
"Hello!" he said, at the sight of his facial disarray. "Who's been hitting you?"
"That's my affair," said Denton.
"Not if it spiles your work, it ain't," said the man in yellow. "You mind that."
Denton made no answer. He was a rough—a labourer. He wore the blue canvas. The
