As Kelly bent over the prostrate form, others of the train crew appeared on the scene. One glance he gave at Shanley’s never-under-any-circumstances-to-be-for-gotten homely countenance, and hastily ordered the men to go forward and investigate the washout ahead. Then he turned to the engineer.
“The man is not drunk, Sandy,” said he.
“He is gloriously and magnificently drunk, Kelly,” replied the engineer.
“What would he be doing here, then? He is not drunk.”
“Sleeping it off. He is disgracefully drunk.”
“Can ye not see the bash on his head where he must have stumbled in the dark trying to save the train and struck against the rail? He is not drunk.”
“Can ye not smell?” retorted Sanderson. “He is dead drunk!”
“I have fought with him and he licked me. He is a man and a friend of mine”—Kelly shoved his lantern into Sanderson’s face. “He is not drunk.”
“He is not drunk,” said Sanderson. “He is a hero. What will we do with him?”
“We’ll carry him, you and me, over to the construction shanty, it’s only a few yards, and put him in his bunk. He works here, you know. McCann’s in Big Cloud, for I saw him there. After that we’ll run back to the Bend for orders and make our report.”