'O'Donnel,' I said. 'Jim O'Donnel.'
His eyes met mine with a glint of amusement. 'Irish, eh?' He smiled. 'Funny thing. You fellows always pick on Irish names. You seem to think it fits this sort of job. There's a boy working for me here now — O'Grady he calls himself. Cockney right through to his backside.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'What experience have you had of mining?'
'Pretty fair,' I told him. 'Started working underground in the Canadian Rockies when I was sixteen. I'm thirty-two now and, with the exception of four years in the army, I've been working in mines all the time — various goldmines in the Coolgardie district of Australia, a short spell in Malaya on tin, and finally in lignite mines in North Italy.'
'Know anything about blasting?'
'I ought to,' I said. 'You can't help knowing about it after twelve years of mining.'
He nodded as though satisfied by my reply. His fingers were drumming on the chair arm again. 'You understand the nature of the business we're engaged on?' It was more a statement than a question and he looked at me sharply.
I raised my glass. 'I guess so,' I said. 'Liquor running.'
He nodded and pulled a sheet of paper towards him across the desk.
'Suppose I tell you I don't want anything to do with it?' I said.
He swung round on me then. 'You've no alternative,' he barked. 'Get that clear right from the start. I wasn't joking when you were in here with Mulligan. You're here and you'll do the job I want doing before you leave.'