'He's going to work here,' the girl said. She was half-laughing. 'He's a miner.'

'Thank Gawd!' he said. "Bout ruddy fed up I am o' never bein' sure when the roofs goin' ter come in on us.'

'My name's O'Donnel,' I told him. 'Jim O'Donnel.'

The devil it is. It's Oirish I am meself. Me name's O'Grady.' He held out his hand. 'It's grand tales we'll be afther telling each! other, man, of those happy days back in Oireland.' The girl I laughed. It was a pleasant sound.

'I thought you were Australian,' I said, 'by the way you were talking just now.'

'Australian! Gor' blimy, that's a good one, that is,' he said, falling back into his original accent. 'The nearest I ever got to Australia was coaling a P. and O. boat at Southampton. That was back in thirty-one when the only work I could get was stevedoring. Come on, mate,' he added, 'you'd better get some cloves on if you're goin' to 'ave grub wiv us. You can put 'em on in the men's dining hall.'

He picked up two dishes from the table. I got my clothes and allowed him. The girl watched us silently. I stole a quick glance at her as I left the kitchen. She was watching us, a hint of laughter in her eyes. But as she met my gaze the laughter was over-shadowed by something else, and she frowned as though she were still puzzled about something.

We went through the cold scullery and through some old sables. The floor was cobbled here, and there were stalls for horses and curved iron mangers, 'You been here long, O'Grady?'

I asked.

'Better call me Friar,' he said. 'Everybody does. O'Grady's sort of a nom de gare — same as your moniker is. You ain't no more Irish than wot I am. Yes, I bin 'ere aba't a year nah. Gettin' quite like 'ome.' He pushed open a door and led the way into a small, bare room with canvas chairs set round a plain, scrubbed table. It was lit by a single oil lamp. An anthracite stove in the corner looked dead and cold, but an oil stove speckled the ceiling with its round ventilation holes. The walls were thinner here and they shook under the full force of the wind. The rain beat against the single curtained window. In one of the canvas chairs a long, cadaverous-featured man sat playing with a knife. His hands were rough and grey as though ingrained with dust. He inspected me slowly out of dark eyes. 'New bloke,' said Friar by way of introduction. 'A miner. Says 'is name's Jim O'Donnel. This 'ere's Slim Matthews.'