“Where you goin’ to preach nex’ Sunday?” cried one.
“President of the new railroad!” shouted another.
“Oh, mother, but ain’t she a lovely lid!”
Smeaton jammed the hat down about his eyes, grinned sheepishly, and held his peace. Meanwhile the cookee was retailing to Swickey the recent happenings at Camp Fifteen-Two, including a vivid account of the “scrap,” in which his share, he emphasized, was not the least.
“Hit me when I wasn’t lookin’,” he concluded, with a tone which suggested that had he been looking some one else would have regretted it. “But Joe Smeaton, he fixed him. Slammed him one and Andy went to sleep on it. Said you was to come down to the jam and take his picture,” he added untruthfully, “with Joe Smeaton’s compliments—fer a quarter.”
“Thank you, Mr. ——?”
“Hines is my name.”
“Mr. Hines.”
The cookee, feeling that he had been rather abruptly dismissed, returned to camp to finish his morning’s work. Swickey locked the cabin and, tapping a farewell to Smoke, who stood watching her at the window, she walked briskly down the road, swinging her camera and humming. Harrigan had called her father early that morning. Avery had handled the dynamite for the Great Western for years before he came to Lost Farm, and although practically retired from this class of work, his ability to “get things moving” was appreciated by Harrigan, who was an experienced driver himself. The old man was sitting on a log, bending busily over something, when Swickey appeared.
“Hello, Swickey. Thought mebby you’d be comin’ along. Joe Smeaton jest went by with some of the boys.”