If she
wants her work done right, she ought to send down something with a
mustache."
Here the song subsided in a prolonged chuckle. McGaw turned, and
caught sight of a boy's head, with its mop of black hair thrust
through a crownless hat, leaning over a water cask. Lathers
turned, too, and instantly lowered his voice. The head ducked out
of sight. In the flash glance Babcock caught of the face, he
recognized the boy Cully, Patsy's friend, and the driver of the
Big Gray. It was evident to Babcock that Cully at that moment was
bubbling over with fun. Indeed, this waif of the streets,
sometimes called James Finnegan, was seldom known to be otherwise.
"Thet's the wurrst rat in the stables," said McGaw, his face
reddening with anger. "What kin ye do whin ye're a-buckin' ag'in'
a lot uv divils loike him?"--speaking through the window to
Babcock. "Come out uv thet," he called to Cully, "or I'll bu'st
yer jaw, ye sneakin' rat!"
Cully came out, but not in obedience to McGaw or Lathers. Indeed,
he paid no more attention to either of those distinguished
diplomats than if they had been two cement-barrels standing on
end. His face, too, had lost its irradiating smile; not a wrinkle
or a pucker ruffled its calm surface. His clay-soiled hat was in
his hand--a very dirty hand, by the way, with the torn cuff of his
shirt hanging loosely over it.
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