Part 23

“Well, Balmy,” said one of the smiths as he passed, “what do you think of the boat race?”

“I think,” said the boy, goaded to reply, “that it would be better if young fellows of this country didn't think so much about racin' an' fightin'.”

The questioner stared blankly for a moment, then laughed suddenly in the boy's face, and turned away. The rest grinned.

“Arvie's getting balmier than ever,” guffawed young Bill.

“Here, Carstor Hoil,” cried one of the smiths' strikers, “how much oil will you take for a chew of terbaccer?”

“Teaspoonful?”

“No, two.”

“All right; let's see the chew, first.”

“Oh, you'll get it. What yer frighten' of?... Come on, chaps, 'n' see Bill drink oil.”

Bill measured out some machine oil and drank it. He got the tobacco, and the others got what they called “the fun of seein' Bill drink oil!”

The second bell rang, and Bill went up to the other end of the shop, where Arvie was already at work sweeping shavings from under a bench.

The young terror seated himself on the end of this bench, drummed his heels against the leg, and whistled. He was in no hurry, for his foreman had not yet arrived. He amused himself by lazily tossing chips at Arvie, who made no protest for a while. “It would be--better--for this country,” said the young terror, reflectively and abstractedly, cocking his eye at the whitewashed roof beams and feeling behind him on the bench for a heavier chip--“it would be better--for this country--if young fellers didn't think so much about--about--racin'--AND fightin'.”

“You let me alone,” said Arvie.

“Why, what'll you do?” exclaimed Bill, bringing his eye down with feigned surprise. Then, in an indignant tone, “I don't mind takin' a fall out of yer, now, if yer like.”

Arvie went on with his work. Bill tossed all the chips within reach, and then sat carelessly watching some men at work, and whistling the “Dead March”. Presently he asked:

“What's yer name, Balmy?”

No answer.

“Carn't yer answer a civil question? I'd soon knock the sulks out of yer if I was yer father.”

“My name's Arvie; you know that.”

“Arvie what?”

“Arvie Aspinall.”

Bill cocked his eye at the roof and thought a while and whistled; then he said suddenly:

“Say, Balmy, where d'yer live?”

“Jones' Alley.”

“What?”

“Jones' Alley.”

A short, low whistle from Bill. “What house?”

“Number Eight.”