Hewett rose from the table, and they walked together to an unoccupied spot.
‘Have you heard any talk about the Burial Club?’ inquired the man, in a low voice of suspicion, knitting his eyebrows.
‘Heard anything? No. What?’
‘Why, Dick Smales says he can’t get the money for his boy, as died last week.’
‘Can’t get it? Why not?’
‘That’s just what I want to know. Some o’ the chaps is talkin’ about it upstairs. M’Cosh ain’t been seen for four or five days. Somebody had news as he was ill in bed, and now there’s no findin’ him. I’ve got a notion there’s something wrong, my boy.’
Hewett’s eyes grew large and the muscles of his mouth contracted.
‘Where’s Jenkins?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I suppose he can explain it?’
‘No, by God, he can’t! He won’t say nothing, but he’s been runnin’ about all yesterday and to-day, lookin’ precious queer.’
Without paying any further attention to Snowdon, John left the room with his companion, and they went upstairs. Most of the men present were members of the Burial Club in question, an institution of some fifteen years’ standing and in connection with the club which met here for social and political purposes; they were in the habit, like John Hewett, of depositing their coppers weekly, thus insuring themselves or their relatives for a sum payable at death. The rumour that something was wrong, that the secretary M’Cosh could not be found, began to create a disturbance; presently the nigger entertainment came to an end, and the Burial Club was the sole topic of conversation.