Scott sifted through the mob, laying bets. It is quite certain that he would have done the same in church, had the vicar ever haled him there. Lou stopped him.
“Who’s that girly-looking kid clapping Gordon?” he asked.
“One of Gordon’s shift on the Lion Hydraulic—Roddy Duncan. He’s a chum of Art Scannell’s.”
“Art Scannell!” breathed Lou. Then he broke Roddy’s treble laugh with a question. You know Mr. Art Scannell, eh?”
“He’s a pal of mine,” said the boy, turning in a pride that he could not make careless.
“I congratulate you. Does he ever speak to you of his sister?”
“Miss Effie? Often. An’ I see her myself. She comes up to the claim———”
“Do you know anything of Randal?”
“I seen him a few times at Phelan’s,” said Roddy.
“Ah! with Art Scannell, of course.” Phelan’s was the lowest hotel in the township. “Well, I hope you’ll drop into Blake’s some evenings—when Art doesn’t want you. I’ll be very glad to see you, you know."
Lou strolled off from Roddy’s flushed thanks. The dead-level of indifference had no favour for him, and Randal would make a good enemy. Mogger asked what he was grin-
