"Lot of use to me you'd have been if the splits had got you. It's a big job we're tackling and I don't want it spoilt by dam-fool sneak thief tricks."
Freddie Dirk apologised and explained his distaste for idleness.
"Ain't we going by train—'cos I got the tickets."
"No."
"Well, 'ang on a minute while I gets the money back."
But even this business coup was denied and with a sense of opportunity lost he entered the car.
There was nothing prepossessing in Freddie Dirk's appearance. He was of the low brow, heavy jaw, bruiser type. The term a "tough" fits him closely. He had a punch like a kick from a dray horse but when called upon to use his hands he preferred to rely upon his mascot to ensure success. Freddie's mascot was a few lengths of whalebone bound with twine and socketed into a pear-shaped lump of lead. Scientifically wielded it would go through the helmet of a City policeman like a hot knife through butter. He had a healthy dislike for firearms which was perhaps the primary cause of his failure to serve King and Country in the late war. His skill as a draft dodger had earned him a great reputation among many of his fellows equally diffident in their will to serve.
"I've got you into this," said Harrison Smith as they chugged up the station incline, "because I want a man who'll stick at nothing."
Dirk nodded.
"There's a chance we may have to——"