"Yes, here I am, Billy."
"Billy!" said Greene, "now wouldn't that drive you to cigarettes? Billy!—why don't you call me drunken Bill? I'm used to that."
"Well, what is it, old man?" asked the foreman, bending down.
"You know this man? This is Dan Moran, the dynamiter." And the foreman of the round-house, recognizing the old engineer for the first time, held out his hand, partly to show to Moran and others that the strike was off, and partly to please the dying man.
"That's right," said Greene to the foreman, "it'll be good for you to touch an honest hand."
By this time a great crowd had gathered about the engine. Some police officers pushed in and ordered the engineer to "back away."
"An' what's it to ye?" asked Greene with contempt, for he hated the very buttons of a policeman. "It's no funeral uf yours. Ye won't grudge me a few moments with me friend, will ye? Move on ye tarrier."
The big policeman glanced about and recognizing the foreman asked why the devil he didn't "git th' felly out?"
Now a red-haired woman came to the edge of the crowd, put her bucket and scrubbing brush down, and asked what had happened.
"Drunk man under the engine," said one of the curious, snappishly. The woman knew that Greene had passed out that way only a few moments ago. She had given him a quarter and he had promised not to come back to her again, and now she put her head down and ploughed through the crowd like a football player.