Fishing boats?...  H’m.  That was devilish peculiar.  Sending out electrical fittings to Belgium in fishing boats!  Funny sort of a way to do trade, though no doubt it was quite permissible up to a point.  Well, he must glean something more out of this good fellow before the day was over.

A glass of beer at the “Pig and Whistle” after dinner worked wonders with the man’s tongue.  He was not a favourite, so free drinks did not often come his way.  After the second glass he seemed almost ready to sell his soul to this amicable newcomer, but Cleek was wise, and bided his time.  He didn’t mean to fleece his man of the information in sight and sound of his fellows.  So he simply talked of the topics of the day, discussed the labour question—­from a new view-point—­and then, as they strolled back together to the factory, just as the whistle began to blow that told the hands the dinner-hour was over, Cleek fired his first shot.

“See ’ere, matey,” he began confidentially, “you’re a decent sort of bloke, you are!  Tell us a bit more about them there fishin’ boats wot you spoke uv.  I’m that interested, I’ve been fair eaten up with curiosity.  Yer didn’t mean the master of this plyce goes and ships electrical fittin’s and such-like out to Belgium in fishin’ boats—­strite, eh?”

“Yus.”  Jenkins nodded.  “That’s exactly what I do mean.  Seems sort er funny, don’t it?  And I reckon there’s somethin’ a bit fishy about the whole thing.  But I keep me mouth shut.  That overseer’s the very devil ’imself.  Happen you’ll larn ter do likewise.  Two chaps who were ’ere larst thought they’d be a bit smarty like, and told ‘im they were goin’ ter tell all they knew—­though God knows what it was!  I ain’t been able to learn much, and haven’t tried neither.  But they went—­zip! like that!  Never saw ’em no more, and nothin’ come of it....  Best to keep your mouth shut, mate.  In this ’ere place, any’ow.”

“Oh,” said Cleek off-handedly, “I’m not one to blab.  You needn’t be afraid o’ that.  By the way, who’s the chap with the black mustache a-stragglin’ all over ‘is fyce?  An’ the narsty eye?  Saw ’im with Borkins, the man wot engaged me night before last.”

“That wasn’t Borkins, me beauty,” returned Jenkins with a laugh.  “That ain’t his name.  ’Ow did you come ter think of it?  That fellow’s name’s Piggott.  And the other man?  We calls ’im Dirty Jim, because ’e does all the dirty work for the boss; but ’is real name’s Dobbs.  And if you takes my word for anything, pal, you won’t go rubbin’ ’im up the wrong way.  ’E’s a fair devil!”

H’m!  “Dirty Jim,” otherwise Jim Dobbs.  And he was in the employment of this very extraordinary firm for the purpose of doing its “dirty work.”  Well, there seemed a good deal of employment for him, if that was the case.  And Borkins was not Borkins in this part of the world.

Cleek stepped back to his work a little thoughtful, a little absent-minded, until the frown upon his forehead caused Dollops to lean over and whisper anxiously, “Nothin’ the matter, is there, sir?”