“Have you heard nothing of doings hereabouts?”

“Nothing out of the way.”

“Why, I thought the country was full of it.  You’ll hear quick enough.  What made you come here?”

“I heard there was always work for a willing man.”

“Are you a member of the union?”

“Sure.”

“Then you’ll get your job, I guess.  Have you any friends?”

“Not yet; but I have the means of making them.”

“How’s that, then?”

“I am one of the Eminent Order of Freemen.  There’s no town without a lodge, and where there is a lodge I’ll find my friends.”

The remark had a singular effect upon his companion.  He glanced round suspiciously at the others in the car.  The miners were still whispering among themselves.  The two police officers were dozing.  He came across, seated himself close to the young traveller, and held out his hand.

“Put it there,” he said.

A hand-grip passed between the two.

“I see you speak the truth,” said the workman.  “But it’s well to make certain.”  He raised his right hand to his right eyebrow.  The traveller at once raised his left hand to his left eyebrow.

“Dark nights are unpleasant,” said the workman.

“Yes, for strangers to travel,” the other answered.

“That’s good enough.  I’m Brother Scanlan, Lodge 341, Vermissa Valley.  Glad to see you in these parts.”

“Thank you.  I’m Brother John McMurdo, Lodge 29, Chicago.  Bodymaster J.H.  Scott.  But I am in luck to meet a brother so early.”

“Well, there are plenty of us about.  You won’t find the order more flourishing anywhere in the States than right here in Vermissa Valley.  But we could do with some lads like you.  I can’t understand a spry man of the union finding no work to do in Chicago.”

“I found plenty of work to do,” said McMurdo.

“Then why did you leave?”

McMurdo nodded towards the policemen and smiled.  “I guess those chaps would be glad to know,” he said.

Scanlan groaned sympathetically.  “In trouble?” he asked in a whisper.

“Deep.”

“A penitentiary job?”

“And the rest.”

“Not a killing!”

“It’s early days to talk of such things,” said McMurdo with the air of a man who had been surprised into saying more than he intended.  “I’ve my own good reasons for leaving Chicago, and let that be enough for you.  Who are you that you should take it on yourself to ask such things?” His gray eyes gleamed with sudden and dangerous anger from behind his glasses.

“All right, mate, no offense meant.  The boys will think none the worse of you, whatever you may have done.  Where are you bound for now?”

“Vermissa.”

“That’s the third halt down the line.  Where are you staying?”

McMurdo took out an envelope and held it close to the murky oil lamp.  “Here is the address—­Jacob Shafter, Sheridan Street.  It’s a boarding house that was recommended by a man I knew in Chicago.”