“Who is that brute?” he asked then.

“That brute!  Why, he’s a famous man.  He owns hundreds of houses, and has been mayor and goodness knows what.  He’ll be knighted and made a duke or something.  He owns the block where Mrs. Somerville lives.  You ought to speak respectfully of your betters, Ned.  He’s been my landlord, though he doesn’t know it, I suppose.  He gets four shillings a week from Mrs. Somerville.  The place isn’t worth a shilling, only it’s handy for her taking her work in, and she’s got to pay him for it being handy.  That’s her money he’s got in his pocket, only if you knocked him down and took it out for her you’d be a thief.  At least, they’d say you were and send you to prison.”

“Who’s the other, I wonder?” said Ned.  “He looks more like a man.”

The other was a shrewd-looking, keen-faced, sparely-built man, with somewhat aquiline nose and straight narrow forehead, not at all bad-looking or evil-looking and with an air of strong determination; in short, what one calls a masterful man.  He was dressed well but quietly.  A gold-bound hair watch guard that crossed his high-buttoned waistcoat was his only adornment; his slender hands, unlike the fat man’s podgy fingers, were bare of rings.  He was sitting alone, and after the fat man left him returned again to the reading of an afternoon paper while he lunched.

“His name’s Strong,” said.  Nellie, turning to Ned with a peculiar smile.  “That fat man has robbed me and this lean man has robbed you, I suppose.  As he looks more like a man it won’t be as bad though, will it?”

“What are you getting at, Nellie?” asked Ned, not understanding but looking at the shrewd man intently, nevertheless.

“Don’t you know the name?  Of course you don’t though.  Well, he’s managing director of the Great Southern Mortgage Agency, a big concern that owns hundreds and hundreds of stations.  At least, the squatters own the stations and the Agency owns the squatters, and he as good as owns the Agency.  You’re pretty sure to have worked for him many a time without knowing it, Ned.”

Ned’s eyes flashed.  Nellie had to kick his foot under the table for fear he would say or do something that would attract the attention of the unsuspecting lean man.

“Don’t be foolish, Ned,” urged Nellie, in a whisper.  “What’s the good of spluttering?”

“Why, it was one of their stations on the Wilkes Downs that started cutting wages two years ago.  Whenever a manager is particularly mean he always puts it down to the Agency.  The Victorian fellows say it was this same concern that first cut wages down their way.  And the New Zealanders too.  I’d just like to perform on him for about five minutes.”

Ned uttered his wish so seriously that Nellie laughed out loud, at which Ned laughed too.

“So he’s the man who does all the mischief, is he?” remarked Ned, again glaring at his industrial enemy.  “Who’d think it to look at him?  He doesn’t look a bad sort, does he?”