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John sighed. Loftus. Of course. For a moment he thought longingly of hisnow useless electrician's tickets in his own name, John Peters. "Where? Whereshall I put it?"The foreman turned back impatiently. "On the ground. Anywhere so long asit's not in the job.""Why? What's wrong with it?"The foreman looked as though he'd like to punch him. "You scooped it upoff the ground. That's what's viTong with it. Do it again and you're out.You're too slow anyway." He raced back to where the Engineer was watchingthe men with the vibrators.So it went on all day. "Too slow!" "Not there!" "Don't chuck it in likethat!" "That man's putting dirt in the forms!" "Hurry!" "Hurry!" "Hurry!"The end came late in the afternoon when, reeling with fatigue, he let hisbarrow swerve off the first floor ramp and fall. He looked down and saw itlying on top of its load of wet concrete, a splattered heap on the ground floorslab. Beneath it, he knew, was the special dust finish the Architect had justinspected and passed.He turned in time to see the foreman coming at him with a shovel. Theother labourers sniggered, but the Engineer yelled "Come back here, Sam.This reinforcement isn't right. You'd better get it fixed by the morning if youwant to pour that section tomorrow."John trudged through the streets, itching, sweating, arguing with himself.It had happened again. So what? It had happened before. Tomorrow he'dlook for something else. Perhaps they stiU had that job at the Tannery. Andafter the Tannery, what? He rubbed his forehead with his grimy hand, hismind an aching bruise like his body."A man's a fool!" he broke out. A fat woman pushing a green shoppingtrolley raked him with dark eyes full of distrust. She hurried on, walking alittle faster.He stopped in the middle of the pavement as a vision of dinner at MrsMcCauley's swam before him. He could see it, smell it, taste it; the lukewarmmutton chops, the yellowed cabbage, the lumpy potato. He remembered theapple, cooked with too many cloves, covered with a tough blanket of custard,and the tea, battleship grey.Comparing Mrs McCauley's dingy, steamy dining room with Marion's sobright and fragrant with good cooking, brought him to a halt."A man's a fool," he whispered, his head bowed. He saw the frayed cuffsof his trousers, the cracked, dusty boots, and for a moment, remembered hisother, well dressed self driving a blue and white station wagon. "Yes. Aman's a fool, all right."Impulsively he turned towards the Grange Hotel, only half aware of hisneed to submerge his misery in the impersonal companionship of anonymousmen."I could have a pie," he thought defiantly, glaring round at the crowdscurrying towards the subway.A slight smile crossed his craggy features. "Might get a game of darts."WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1 967 15