the hill into space.  And although Arthur Cotterill knew Trafalgar Road as well as Mrs Hopkins knew the hundred and twenty-first Psalm, the effect of the scene on him was most uncanny.  He watched Simeon persuade the loaded barrow down the step into the tiny front garden, not daring to help him, because Simeon did not like to be helped by clumsy people in delicate operations.  Mrs Hopkins was rapidly pouring all the goodness of her soul into his ear, when Simeon and the barrow reached the pavement, and Simeon staggered and recovered himself.

“Look out, Arthur,” Simeon cried.  “The road’s like glass.  It’s rained in the night, and now it’s freezing.  Come along.”

Arthur bade adieu to Mrs Hopkins.

“Eh, Mr Arthur,” said she.  “Things’ll be different when ye come back, this time a month.”

He said nothing.  The pincers and the anvil were at him again.  He thought of falls, torn garments, broken legs.

Simeon lifted the arms of the barrow, and then dropped them.

“Have you got it?” he demanded of Arthur.

“Got what?”

“It.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, comprehending.

“Are you sure?  Show it me.  Better give it me.  It will be safer with me.”

Arthur unbuttoned his overcoat, took off his left glove, and drew from one of his pockets a small, bright object, which shone under the street lamp.  Simeon took it silently.  Then he definitely seized the arms of the barrow, and the procession started up the street.

No time had been lost, for Simeon had an extraordinary gift of celerity.  It was eleven minutes to seven.  Nevertheless, Arthur felt the pincers, and the feel of the pincers made him look at his watch.

“See here,” said Simeon, briefly.  “You needn’t worry. We shall catch that train.  We’ve got twenty minutes, and we shall get to the station in nine.”  The exertion of wheeling the barrow over what was practically a sheet of rough ice made him speak in short gasps.

Impossible for the pincers and the anvil to remain in face of that assured, almost god-like tone!

“Good!” murmured Arthur.  “By Jove, but it’s cold though!”

“I’ve never been hotter in my life,” said Simeon, puffing.  “Except in my hands.”

“Can’t I take it for a bit?”

“No, you can’t,” said Simeon.  At the robust finality of the refusal Arthur laughed.  Then Simeon laughed.  The party became gay.  The pincers and the anvil were gone for ever.  Simeon turned gingerly into Pollard Street-half-way to the station.  They had but to descend Pollard Street and climb the path across the cinder-heaps beyond, and they would be, as it were, in harbour.  In Pollard Street Simeon had the happy idea of taking to the roadway.  It was rougher, and, therefore, less dangerous, than the pavement.  At intervals he shoved the wheel of the barrow by main force over a stone.

“Put my hat straight, will you?” he asked of Arthur, and Arthur obeyed.  It was becoming a task under the winter stars.