“Hark! what’s that?” said one.
“What’s what? you idiot; you’re worse ’an a two-year-old, shyin’ at a fallin’ leaf.”
“I heard someon’ cough.”
“It’s that chicken heart of yours hittin’ your vest. Close that fissure in your face.”
“Aw, cheese it,” said the third man, “what’s on yer mind, Charley?”
“A whole lot,” said the severe man, who seemed to be the captain. “The night express is the proper train, Monday night the time, and Casey Water Tank the place.”
Tommy hunched Jack.
“There’s always a lot of mail and express matter that accumulates here over Sunday, therefore the Monday fast express ought to be good picking.”
A bareheaded woman came down to the river, looked into the boiling flood, shivered and went away, manifestly determined to make one more effort to solve the bread and butter problem.
When she had passed out of hearing, the man went on: “Jim’ll go to Casey to-morrow, Sunday, and make his way to the tank. Having the only decent suit, I’ll take a sleeper for Indianapolis, but I promise you I won’t sleep. And Pete, you white-livered coyote, you’ll take the blind baggage at Greenup, so as to be on hand when the time comes.”