With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly.

―Chow! he said. Blast you!

―The dust from those sacks, J. J. O’Molloy said politely.

―No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a⁠ ⁠… cold night before⁠ ⁠… blast your soul⁠ ⁠… night before last⁠ ⁠… and there was a hell of a lot of draught⁠ ⁠…

He held his handkerchief ready for the coming⁠ ⁠…

―I was⁠ ⁠… this morning⁠ ⁠… poor little⁠ ⁠… what do you call him⁠ ⁠… Chow!⁠ ⁠… Mother of Moses!

Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat.

―See? he said. Say it’s turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.