The navvy showed himself quite undisturbed.
"Oughter," he said, "seein you and me was dragg'd oop same school togedder along o Mr. Pigott back yarnderr. You're Alf Caspar, and I be Reuben Deadman. There's an old saying these paarts you may have heard—When there isn't a Deadman in Lewes Gaol you may knaw the end o't world's at hand. I've not been in maself, not yet. When I goos I'll goo for to swing—for you—for old times sake; let alone the dirty dish you done Old Tip and them this arternoon."
Alf walked up the hill, breathing heavily and with mottled face.
The bubble of his exaltation had burst. He felt a curious sinking away within him, as though he were walking on cold damp clouds which were letting him through.
The war was changing things already, and not to his liking.
Three weeks ago who'd have talked to the Managing Director of Caspar's Syndicate like that?
Brooding on his troubles, he ran into Joe Burt who was coming swiftly round the corner of Borough Lane, brooding too.
Alf darted nimbly back. Joe stood with lowered head, glaring at his enemy. Then he thought better of it and turned on his way.
Alf, standing in the middle of the road with jeering eyes, called after him furtively.
"Want her all to yourself, don't you?"