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own name, John Peters. The new John Loftus couldn't present them anyway.He was finished.Impulsively he walked to the Grange Hotel near Mrs McCauley's boardinghouse where he had a room. Over a lonely beer in the Bar he swallowedhis shock. He couldn't work as an electrician, that was plain. He'd have tolook for something else."You'd better look for something else." The foreman handed over theanaemic pay envelope. "You're just not fast enough on the machine. You'rea bit old to take up factory work."John walked through tbe gates of the box factory, stuffing his splinterspeckledhands deep in the pockets of his shapeless trousers.How many lost jobs did that make? He shook his head slowly. Near thebus stop he saw the sign, "Strong Man Wanted". He smiled wryly. He wasa man, anyway. The months in hospital had somehow sapped his strength.All the afternoon he loaded sacks of flour up on to a succession of trucks.Even with the hook they gave him he could scarcely lift them. Near knockofftime he fell and the bag he was carrying split. John looked up from hisbed of spilt flour, "I'd better snatch me time, mate," he mumbled.The huge foreman rubbed his hand down the front of his navy blue vestand nodded. He turned without a word to make out a pay chit.At the Grange Hotel that night John heard the rumour. "They are shortof barrovinmen at the new High School site." Barrowman! Wheeling concreteup a ramp. That was sinking a bit low, but it was still better than that jobat the Tannery he'd heard about.Next day Sam, the foreman, looked him over. "I'll take you on trial for acoupla days," he said between mouthfuls of liverwurst and tomato sandwich.John watched every bite greedily. Mrs McCauley served only breakfast anddinner. Her boarders were all workingmen and were not expected to be homeat lunchtime. John had been too stiff and exhausted to get up early and hadso missed breakfast and there had been no cut lunch for him, or if there hadsomeone else had taken it. Not much loss, he reflected; corned beef sandwicheswith a trace of pickle, a dusty sultana cake, perhaps a spotted apple."What time?" he asked."Start at half past seven—contract's behind. If you're late you're out."Sam looked at John again. "If you can get anything else, old timer, take it,"he said kindly. "This is hard work and you have to be quick or the concretegoes rotten. Look," he said suddenly, "you can start now if you like, afterlunch. See how you go. If you can do the work, come back tomorrow."Old timer, John thought rebelliously as all afternoon he trundled barrowloadsof concrete up the ramp. The tricky part was tipping it neatly into theformwork for the columns. He was trembling with fatigue when the whistleblew."You're awful slow." Sam remarked as he was putting on his coat. "You'llhave to be faster tomorrow, we'll be pouring the first floor slab."At least he didn't tell me not to come back, John thought, more cheerfulafter a couple of beers at the Grange Hotel. "Anyone want to play darts?" hecalled.WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1 967 13