"Tell me about them," I said.
"Well, see that young fellow standing near us?"
I looked. He was slim, with gentle, refined features and an unnaturally fresh complexion.
"That fellow was a pen-pusher in a mazuma emporium—I mean a bank clerk. Pinklove's his name. He wanted to get hitched to some girl, but the directors wouldn't stand for it. Now he's chucked his job and staked his savings on this trip. There's his girl in the crowd."
Bedded in that mosaic of human faces I saw one that was all sweetness, yet shamelessly tear-stained.
"Lucky beggar," I said, "to have some one who cares so much about his going."
"Unlucky, you mean, lad. You don't want to have any strings on you when you play this game."
He pointed to a long-haired young man in a flowing-end tie.
"See that pale-faced, artistic-looking guy alongside him. That's his partner. Ineffectual, moony sort of a mut. He's a wood-carver; they call him Globstock; told me his knowledge of wood-carving would come in handy when we came to make boats at Lake Bennett. Then there's a third. See that little fellow shooting off his face?"
I saw a weazened, narrow-chested mannikin, with an aggressive certainty of feature.