"But don't argue religion with him," said one of the group.
The attendant laughed.
"Ah, you know him, then," said he. "No, don't argue religion with him."
"Why not?" asked the officer.
"Well, he takes it very hard, he does. He's the shining light of his sect."
"It ain't hard to be that," said the knowing one. "I've heard there are only six folk in the fold. He's one of those who picture heaven as the exact size of their own back street conventicle and every one else left outside it."
"Better not tell him so while he's got that hammer in his hand," said the conductor, in a hurried whisper. "Hallo, Jim, how goes it this morning?"
The man slid swiftly down the last thirty feet, and then balanced himself on a cross-bar while he looked at the little group in the lift. As he stood there, clad in a leather suit, with his pliers and other tools dangling from his brown belt, he was a figure to please the eye of an artist. The man was very tall and gaunt, with great straggling limbs and every appearance of giant strength. His face was a remarkable one, noble and yet sinister, with dark eyes and hair, a prominent hooked nose, and a beard which flowed over his chest. He steadied himself with one knotted hand, while the other held a steel hammer dangling by his knee.
"It's all ready aloft," said he. "I'll go up with you if I may." He sprang down from his perch and joined the others in the lift.
"I suppose you are always watching it," said the young lady.