have those three men of yours.'
'Those three—?' Handforth-Jones's eyebrows lifted. Then he looked at the three labourers calculatingly.
'Well, maybe they might at that, if the money was right. . .
The smallest and most shifty-looking of the three instantly dropped his spade and jog-trotted towards them.
'Arthur is the negotiator,' said Handforth-Jones quickly. 'They're Ulstermen. They say they're 'resting'
between motorway engagements. But I know there's been bad blood between the English and the Irish on several jobs since the trouble got worse in Ireland. And from what Arthur let slip I rather suspect they left there in a hurry too.'
His voice tailed off as Arthur came to a halt in front of him. But the quick, darting eyes flicked over Audley and Butler before settling on the archaeologist, testing for gold, thought Butler—or copper.
'Sorr?'
Londonderry Irish.
'Like to earn a quick fiver, Arthur?'
'Each,' Butler snapped. Whatever the rates archeology paid, ex-motorway workers would not be bought for a mere pound or two.
'Doin' what?' Arthur concentrated on Butler now.
'Most likely standing still for half an hour. But there could be a punch-up in it.'
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Arthur's expression blanked over.
'But there could be a punch-up,' he repeated, as though adding an item to a bill. 'An' if there was a punch-up would the police be in on it, sorr?'
'No police.'
'Argh, but them fellas have a way uv—'
'I said no police,' Butler fixed his fiercest military eye on the little man.
Londonderry Irish. Dirty in the trenches, his father used to say, the Papists more so than the Prods. And not as steady when things looked blackest as the English North Country regiments. But real scrappers when it came to the attack, none better. Because they liked it.
Arthur cocked his head on one side and screwed up his seamed little face in preparation for the bargaining.
'Well, sorr—'
'I've no time to waste. Five pounds each for maybe half an hour's work and no questions. Take it or leave it.'
The Irishman risked a glance at Handforth-Jones, but received no help. The trick was somehow to tip the balance, but Butler's frugal soul revolted against tipping it with more money. Then it came to him, the despicable insight.
'Man, they're only students I want you to stand up to, not Provisionals or B Specials.'
'Students?' Arthur sprayed the sibilants through his teeth in disdain. 'Why did ye not say so before, sorr! Fi' pound apiece it is, then. I'll just go tell me friends.' He started down the hillside. 'Hah! Students is it... Hah !'
He stumped away, still playing the stage Irishman for his paymaster's benefit, and Butler turned just in time to catch Audley and Handforth-Jones exchanging glances.
'The spirit of St Scholastica's Day,' murmured the archaeologist cryptically.
'Alive and kicking after six hundred years,' agreed Audley. 'So much for 'Workers of the hand and the mind unite'. But can you hold the pass with those three, Jack?'
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'If I was meant to be here, then I'm pretty sure I shall have reinforcements,' said Butler dryly.
XVII
As THEY CAME within sight of the milecastle, Butler thought for one horrible moment they were too late. But in the next instant he recognised the dark, tousled hair.
'Sorr—' Arthur hissed urgently beside him.
'It's all right. He's one of mine.'
'Aargh—that's grand!' Arthur slapped the pick-handle into his open palm joyfully. 'D'ya hear that, boys
—'tis one of the Colonel's fellas!'
Richardson waved, leapt from the Wall to the ground and ran towards them.
'Phew! I'm out of training, and that's a fact.' He grinned breathlessly. 'It's this sedentary life of scholarship I've been leading.'
'Report!' snapped Butler. 'You're supposed to be looking after McLachlan.'
'He's just coming—phew—on the other side of the Wall,' panted Richardson. 'And he's not the only one
—they'll all be here soon.'
'He's with them, you mean.'
