"Meaner 'n' hell over there, ain't they?"
There was no comment.
"How long you goin' to stand it, Jim?" persisted Bradley. And after the odd pause, the slow answer: "Till I get tired."
"That'll be about the time they rip it off again."
"About that time, Bill."
"Well," hazarded the old driver, meditatively, "the boys are waitin'. They say you're slow to start anything, Jim; but they look f'r hell t' pay when y' do."
To the stranger—it seemed to Kate—words must be worth their weight in gold, he parted with them so sparingly.
"What's this talk 'bout Farrell Kennedy makin' a depity marshal, Jim?"
"Mostly talk, Bill. Good night."
"Farrel offered it to y', didn't he?"'