“I call myself The Falcon,” came the quiet reply.
“Moniker, eh? But I can’t make out checks to ‘The Falcon,’ can I? What does your mother call you?”
There was a little space of silence. “I don’t use my right name, Mr. Mangan,” said the tramp. “Even Halfaman here doesn’t know it yet. He calls me Falcon.”
Mangan shrugged. “All right,” he said. “I know stiffs. None of my business. I’ll put it ‘Falcon the Flunky’—that do?”
“Good enough.”
Hunter Mangan wrote a little, then handed a card to each man. “Those’ll let you in the dining room here at the hotel,” he informed them. “I guess you can do the rest. And now you’d better get out and help with the loading up.”
Halfaman looked at his card, then at his employer, then up at the solemn-faced clock on the dirty wall. To the clock he spoke.
“It’s three o’clock,” he said. “And this rube dining room will be closed. But I saw a little short-order joint right around the corner, and—ahem!”
Hunter Mangan reached into his pocket and passed him a dollar.
“Get out o’ here!” he ordered.