cured for him, and which were hidden under the bed. One evening, after supper, as the young man sat in his room reading, and enjoying his cigar, the door suddenly opened, and a rather forbidding-looking ruffian, known as Bert Harrison, entered. Harrison had proved himself an expert work-shirker, whose allotment was the most backward in the community. He was something of a politician, and already exercised a good deal of influence upon his fellows. He harangued them, on occasion, over a mug of beer, pointing out how the country should be governed.
Stranleigh threw down his book and rose to his feet.
"I beg your pardon," he said mildly, "but I didn't hear you knock."
"Right you are, mate," cried Bert, affably. "Don't need to worry about that, because I didn't knock. We're all comrades here, you know."
"I shouldn't think of entering your room without knocking," persisted Stranleigh.
"Oh, wouldn't you? It 'ud be all the same to me. Friend of mine is welcome, however he comes. But then, you see, I come official. I'm a delegation. What the brethren wants to know is where you get them cigars you smoke."
