As this man gazes aimlessly down the road, he sees a few dim figures flitting in front of him. They move on rapidly for a few yards and stop. Suddenly there is a flash of light above them, and as each street lamp is lit, a small halo is formed in the evil night haze now beginning to envelop the street. It is not yet time, however, for the inhabitants to awaken from their drunken slumbers. It is later on that the lost legion rises.
As the figures disappeared from view the landlord turned slowly and moved into the bar-room, where there was a thick odour of stale liquor and staler tobacco. The room was empty, save for the figure of a man lying asleep at a small marble-topped table, his head resting on his arms. From a smaller room beyond, the door of which was closed, came the sound of voices, and now and then an oath, or a hoarse laugh. Kavasji made a movement as if to approach the door, but changing his mind passed behind the bar, and settling himself into a cane chair, dozed off comfortably.
In the meantime the conversation in the next room grew louder, and apparently more mirthful. There were two men there, sitting at a table, over which a well-thumbed pack of cards was scattered in some confusion. The room was littered with the débris from empty pipes and the remains of half-burnt matches. A reflecting lamp, glaring from the wall, exactly opposite the door, threw out the figures in strong relief.
"And so, messmate, I scooped in the dust--every dollar of it."
And the speaker, a tall, powerful man, whose shirt-sleeves, pulled up to the elbow, showed the tattoo marks on his arms, brought his fists on the table with a crash that made the glasses clink.
"It was hellish cute," said his companion, as he leaned back and laughed heartily, showing an even row of strong white teeth through the masses of red hair with which the lower portion of his face was covered. "I don't know a man, Dungaree," he added, "who could have done it save yourself."
The giant grinned in response to the compliment, and, pulling out a jack-knife, began to pare some tobacco from a twist lying on the table beside him.
"That," said he, nodding his head at the knife as he finished the operation, "was the tickler."
"Rayther light for the work," said the red-haired man, as he picked the knife up and poised it in his hand.
"There's the weight behind it," answered Dungaree Bill, puffing away at his short pipe.