“Why, blame your head! I’ll break your neck!”
“I wouldn’t advise you to try it.”
The coolness of the youth staggered Hicks, who was accustomed to seeing the wipers start and cringe before him. He felt like collaring Frank, but something caused him to stay his hand.
Larry Logan, the young Irishman, came up and stood looking on, an expression of satisfaction on his face.
“Oi think ye’d betther foind out th’ b’y ye’re tacklin’, Mr. Hicks,” chuckled Larry.
“What in thunder do I care who he is! If he’s one of Ganzell’s favorites, it won’t make any difference. If he don’t get away from that engine, I’ll mop him all over the ground.”
“It’s a roight swate job ye’d be afther takin’, sur,” grinned the young Irishman. “This is th’ chap phwat knocked out Ould Sloogs widout gettin’ a marruk on himself.”
“Hey?”
The engineer looked astonished. He had heard of the encounter between the bully of the roundhouse and an applicant for work, but it did not seem possible that this boy had whipped the ruffian.
“Thot’s dead straight, sur,” asserted Larry.