“Never mind that,” cut in Rockwell. “You made a show of Hibbard and me before the judge, but that’s done with now, and I’ll see if I can’t smooth things over. Pembroke seems to have taken a fancy for you, and you can help me—and maybe Hibbard, too—by keeping away from him. What’s your business?”
“I like to work with motors and I want a place in a garage. I was going to Phoenix to see you about it. Have you a place for me?”
A look of relief crossed Rockwell’s face and his voice took on a more friendly tone as he answered:
“I’d like to give you a job, but hanged if I see how I can. Got more men now than I know what to do with. Is that all?”
“No,” said Clancy, “there’s something else.”
Rockwell grew uneasy again and his former gruffness came back with a rush.
“What else?” he grunted.
“You know a man named John Clancy, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m John Clancy’s son. Owen Clancy is my name.”