‘He’s not difficult to make out,’ he said, ‘not if you’ve met his type before.’

Charles maintained silence. It was a policy that was proving its value. As Simons seemed to be waiting for him to say something, he took the simplest way out by pointing to the empty glass and saying, ‘Another?’

‘Have one with me,’ said Simons, thus revealing his hand a little farther. It showed that he was willing to take a little trouble to influence Charles.

When he returned with the drinks he said, ‘The long and short of it is this. Bunder and them pals of his aren’t bad at the job. They could do all right if they were content to stick to it and do one job at a time, like. But they aren’t. The job’s not good enough for them.’

He lit his pipe. The match flame flared, inches high, in between guttering almost out.

‘So what do they do?’ he went on.

Charles did not know what they did. To answer might spoil everything. He buried his face in his glass.

The other drivers were standing up. ‘Come on, Jack,’ one of them called to Simons. ‘Time to be getting on to the station.’

Simons took out his watch and looked at it. ‘That’s right,’ he said. He got up, and Charles followed him out into the street, and fell into step as they trudged along, hoping that Simons would go on with the vitally important part of the story. But some of the others were talking and Simons was listening to them. He seemed to have forgotten that he had been interrupted.

In the train going back they played cards. Charles did not get a chance to speak to Simons again.