“They’re coming to see me about jobs, no doubt. Well, they’ve struck the right place. If they’re old-timers I can use them. But I hate to break new men in. And there’s little need to just now—there are plenty of stiffs all up and down the line.”
He swiveled toward the two, who had entered and now approached the desk.
“Well, fellows,” he said lightly, “what’s the good word from up the line?”
“Hello, Mr. Mangan,” returned one of the tramps, speaking out of the corner of his mouth and grinning good-humoredly.
Mangan rose to his feet “Well, if it isn’t Halfaman Daisy!” he ejaculated, and strode around Canby to grip the hobo’s hand. “Tickled to death to see you, old-timer! Where did you blow from?”
“Aw, I was over in Nebrasky with a little gypo outfit,” Halfaman said bashfully. “I heard some o’ the gaycats talkin’ about the Gold Belt Cut-off, out here in Cal, and when they slipped it that you folks had a piece of ’er I hit the blinds straight out. How’s chances, Mr. Mangan?”
“Best in the world, old-timer—best in the world,” Hunt Mangan assured him. “I’d fire a man to put you behind one of our teams. Let’s see—you drove Jack and Ned on snap down on that little Arkansas job last time you were with us, eh?”
“That’s right, Mr. Mangan.”
“Well, by George, you can have a snap team on this job, if you want it! I’ve got three big white Percherons just breaking into snap work. Under five years old, all three of ’em. Want to take a shot?”
“Sure do, bossman. She listens good to me. When you say a horse is a horse he’s a horse. But say, Mr. Mangan, I—I got a pal that wants a job, too.”