“Every man’s goose is a swan,” thought Power. “Let’s see the nag.”
He was a good one, and no mistake; but an out-and-out good one was wanted for the job in hand.
At one end of the brick field—a spacious place covering two or three hundred acres—was an office for the time-keeper and foreman of the works. He was an old police sergeant, long pensioned off, but he had his wits about him still. The office was approached by a narrow lane, with room for one set of wheels only, a quarter of a mile in length, and branching off from the high road to Uxbridge. Up this lane, half hidden by the hedge, Mr. Power drove to the foreman’s shed. The ex-sergeant was alone, and readily fell in with the plan proposed. “Here!” he cried to a young fellow who went his errands and assisted in the office; “run up to the field and ask Dan Cockett if he wants a job for that idle young nephew. I see he’s back in these parts. I need a lad to screen coal dust, and I’ll give him twelve shillings a week. Look sharp!”
The messenger went off immediately.
“A job for my nephew?” said old Dan. “Ay—heartily thank you too, master. You’re a gentleman. Hi! Punch, you’re in luck. They say they’ll take you on. Twelve shillings a week. Run along with the master: they want to ‘book you’ at the office.”
So unsuspecting Punch accompanied the other back to where Power was waiting for his prey. This warder was an extremely powerful man—tall, with tremendous shoulders, and just then in the prime of life and activity.
He stepped forward at once.
“What, Punch! What are you doing in these parts?”