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PROBABLY "Old Cull" Grain would not regard himself as an instrument of a divine Providence. Nor probably would anyone else so regard him. His face was too red, his voice was too big, he kept a greengrocer's shop in the Deptford High Street, and, moreover, backed horses.

For it is well known by the very best authorities that the messengers and wonder-workers of Providence are of a meek and innocent disposition. Children who reconcile their estranged parents—brown-eyed maidens who bring together tragic lovers—even policemen are to be respected in this capacity; but certainly not red-faced greengrocers and sporting greengrocers to boot.

Dick Selby, passing along High Street, Deptford, one Saturday night in June, came face to face with Old Cull. Times were hard with this boy with the clean-cut face and the strong straight mouth and he was in no mood for Old Cull's pleasantries.

It wasn't the fact that he had lost his job—there was another waiting, he knew that—but somewhere down in the unexplored caverns of his mind there was fierce, vague discontent, an indescribable soul nausea, an intangible and irritating restlessness that he could not define or classify.

Old Cull stopped him, standing unsteadily on the edge of the pavement.

The street was alive with people on this summer evening, for this was the marketing hour. The cheap butcher hoarsely and extravagantly extolled his carrion, addressing his customers with gross familiarity, and from the fair-ground just a little way along the street came fitfully the blare of a steam organ.

This was life and gaiety and experience, and the world of Deptford went shuffling by in the thin drizzle of rain, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, soaked in the sense of enjoyment.

"Dick," said Old Cull gravely, "gorrer good thing."

"Oh," said Dick absently.

"Did I tell you 'Clarabelle'?" demanded Cull aggressively.

"Did you? Yes, I think you did, Cull," said Dick.

"Didn't I put you on to 'The Wash' when it rolled home at sevens?"

The boy nodded.

"This," was a long recital. It entailed much explanation—husky, confidential whispering, and holding on to Dick's shoulder. Worse, it meant Old Cull's red face thrust into his, and the scent of his vinous breath.

It was about "The Snooker" running at Ascot in the two o'clock race on Tuesday. Old Cull had the tip straight from a publican who knew a man who knew a trainer. This was the straightest, most unbeatable gem that had ever scintillated in the summer sun, the most precious stable secret that tout had ever surprised, or publican (for a consideration) acquired.

"And mark me, Dicky," said Old Cull solemnly, "this is a thing to put your shirt on, to pawn your watch on, to scrape an' strive to get every penny you can borrow to put on—it's a blanky snip!"

In making this emphatic pronouncement, Cull Grain played the part of Providence designed for him, and Dick left him and continued his walk slowly and thoughtfully.

A way out?

His heart leapt at the thought.

A way out of Deptford and the humdrum monotony of his work? From Laddo, and the Gills and the Makins, from the Tanner's Hill lot, and the Creek Road lot!

It was ridiculous, of course, for a cheap clerk to have ambitions. He was not even a clerk: he checked time for Morlands, the contractors; he checked the weight of granite-laden carts, and tested the size of Aberdeen "pitchers." A board school had turned him loose on to the world with a half-digested education. An island was a piece of land surrounded by water; he knew that. "Was" was a verb, past tense of the verb "to be," agreeing with its noun in number and person; he knew that. And similar aids to an industrial life were hotch-potched in his mind—a disconnected array of facts.

His father he never remembered, but he had a distinct recollection of his mother's funeral. He had lived with an aunt till he was able to earn his living, and now he had a tiny room in Friendly Street, with all a lodger's privileges.

He went over his position as he continued his walk. One half of his brain recounted the situation, whilst the other half speculated upon Old Cull's tip.

Ahead of him, he told himself, was at best a clerkship, a small house in the suburbs. And a wife.

He flushed at the last thought.

The Brown Lady was, of course, a dream lady. A beautiful and fragrant dream that it was impious to associate with marriage, even were such an end possible. The other girl would be of his own class, loud of speech, florid as to dress, with the twang of the street, and the humour and commonplace cant of the gutter. He shrugged his shoulders. The reality must wait: for the moment he had the Brown Lady—nothing could rob him of this fairy vision. Clerk or time-checker, he could still stand on the other side of the street and watch her trip down to the brougham that stood at her door; he could still wait in the shadows, listening to her fresh voice and her rippling little laugh. It was because of her dress that he called her the Brown Lady. She always wore brown. The first time he had ever seen her she was quite a little girl...

"Hullo, Dick!"

It was Laddo, of course. Dick knew the voice and turned to face the youth who had accosted him. Laddo had eyes that quivered. They never looked at you straight. They looked over you and round you, and at your boots, but never directly at you.

Laddo's face was white—a dull, dead white. He wore a satin choker about his throat, and his trousers were cut very tightly fitting indeed. For Laddo had a reputation in Deptford, an unsavoury one it is true, but there were girls who lived in the vicinity of Creek Road who would, as the saying goes, have "given their heads" to walk with the youth who had once been tried at the Old Bailey, and against whom had been returned a verdict of "Not guilty." This was because of insufficient evidence, and not, as Creek Road was well aware, because Laddo was unconnected with the felony under review.

Dick eyed him grimly. "Well, Laddo, you look spruce."

Laddo grinned and jingled his money musically. "Out of work, ain't ye?" he asked.

Dick nodded. "You never ought to be out of work, Laddo," he said with a touch of irony.

"No," said the unabashed Laddo, "I did a bit of a job last week."

Laddo had a mysterious employer; it was reputed that Laddo's master was a lenient and a powerful one. In criminal circles he was known as "Mr. Fox."

Laddo looked round. "Here," he said confidentially, dropping his voice, "you're a scholar, ain't you?"

"I can read and write," Dick smiled.

"Read this for us."

Laddo thrust the paper forward, then drew it back.

For once he steadied his dancing eyes, peering at Dick with narrowed lids.

"This is between you an' me—see?" Dick nodded.

"I trust you, Dick, because you're straight—you wouldn't give a man away?"

Dick shook his head and took the proffered paper.

"Dear Laddo," he read. "This comes hoping your are gay as it leaves us at present. The bloke is at 45, there's a big kerridge drive, also brass plate on door, so you can't miss it. So look round an' see him, then you'll know how it lays. Monday night, don't forget, so no more at present, Inkey."

"Monday night, eh?" repeated Laddo musingly.

"No. 45—big carriage drive—brass plate on door," mentally noted Dick, with a perplexed frown.

In some manner these landmarks were familiar to him.

Then suddenly his heart gave a leap, and he breathed quickly, for he remembered a No. 45: it was the house of the Brown Lady, and curiously enough there was a carriage drive and a brass plate on the door.