“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.”

“Well, I don’t know it; but Vermissa is out of my beat. I live at Hobson’s Patch, and that’s here where we are drawing up. But, say, there’s one bit of advice I’ll give you before we part: If you’re in trouble in Vermissa, go straight to the Union House and see Boss McGinty. He is the Bodymaster of Vermissa Lodge, and nothing can happen in these parts unless Black Jack McGinty wants it. So long, matel Maybe we’ll meet in lodge one of these evenings. But mind my words: If you are in trouble, go to Boss McGinty.”

Scanlan descended, and McMurdo was left once again to his thoughts. Night had now fallen, and the flames of the frequent furnaces were roaring and leaping in the darkness. Against their lurid background dark figures were bending and straining, twisting and turning, with the motion of winch or of windlass, to the rhythm of an eternal clank and roar.

“I guess hell must look something like that,” said a voice.

McMurdo turned and saw that one of the policemen had shifted in his seat and was staring out into the fiery waste.