“The blazes I am! What, that soft-looking guy?”
“That’s the one.”
“Well, may I be gosh-darned!”
The man stared at Frank as if unable to believe such a thing possible.
“Why, he’s a kid!”
“If you think so, just get him after ye. Slugs gave you a thrashing, and you wouldn’t last half as long with that kid.”
After this the man did not call Frank “dudie” again, but there were others who did. Whenever two or three wipers were together in Frank’s vicinity, they did their best to jolly him.
Merry did not get angry. He knew that would be the worst thing for him. He said very little, but occasionally he made some retort, and in every case it proved cutting for the one at whom it was aimed. The men began to realize after a while that the soft-looking youth could use his tongue quite as skillfully as his fists.
What surprised everybody was the fact that Frank did not show hesitation in taking hold of any kind of a job, no matter how dirty. He was not squeamish, or, if he was, he did not betray it.
Nearly half the forenoon had passed before Frank learned that Martin Hall, or Old Slugs, as he was generally called, had not put in an appearance that morning, but was reported to be ill in bed, unable to work.