At the inn of West Drayton he bought from the ostler a suit of navvy’s clothes, and went thus disguised with a spade over his shoulder towards the brickworks. The field was full and busy. There was an alehouse close by, and it was early morning, no one about but a sort of serving wench, a middle-aged woman, one-eyed, and bearing on her face the marks of a life of dissipation and rough usage.
“Morrow, mistress. Any work going?” said Power.
“Ah! work enough,” replied the woman, fixing him with her one eye, which was as good as four or five in any other head. “But you don’t want no work.”
“No?”
“No; I know you. You’re not what you seem. That spade and them duds ain’t no sort of good. You’re after work, but not that sort of work.”
Doubtful whether she meant to help or thwart him, Power could only trust himself to order a pot of ale.
“Have a drain, missus.”
“And I’ll help you too—no, not with the ale, but to cop young Punch.”
“Punch?”
“Aye—Punch Howard. That’s the work you’re after; and you shall get it too, or my name’s not Martha Jonas. This three-and-twenty years I’ve lived with his uncle, Dan Cockett, man and wife, though no parson blessed us. Three-and-twenty I slaved and bore with the mean white-faced hound, and now he leaves me for a younger woman, and I am brought to this. Help you!—by the great powers, I’d put a knife in Dan Cockett too.”