“Ain’t seen yeh since yer old man died,” Tim Hagan commented.
“Well, you’re seein’ me now, ain’t you?” was Young Dick’s retort. “Say, Tim, I come to see you on business.”
“Wait till I rush the beer to the old man,” said Tim, inspecting the state of the foam in the lard-can with an experienced eye. “He’ll roar his head off if it comes in flat.”
“Oh, you can shake it up,” Young Dick assured him. “Only want to see you a minute. I’m hitting the road to-night. Want to come along?”
Tim’s small, blue Irish eyes flashed with interest.
“Where to?” he queried.
“Don’t know. Want to come? If you do, we can talk it over after we start? You know the ropes. What d’ye say?”
“The old man’ll beat the stuffin’ outa me,” Tim demurred.
“He’s done that before, an’ you don’t seem to be much missing,” Young Dick callously rejoined. “Say the word, an’ we’ll meet at the Ferry Building at nine to-night. What d’ye say? I’ll be there.”
“Supposin’ I don’t show up?” Tim asked.