"And yet they'd laugh all the louder if I was to go away without speaking, Father. What kind is Buck Malone to look at and where does he hang out?"
The priest poked the end of his cane at Tim's chest.
"Is it fighting you'd be at, Mr. Riley?"
"It is not. I'm not for fighting—unless, of course, I have to. Isn't it only natural to want to know what kind your opponent is?"
"So it is—so it is. Well, then, about this time o' day you'll find him in that cigar-store with the sign out—below there. He's a contractor himself, who furnishes labor for the quarries. A man about your height and breadth he'll be, but a trifle fuller in the waist. A stout, strong man, and not many able to look him down. An eye in his head, has Buck! I wouldn't want to see the pair of ye at it."
"Thank you, Father. And look—d'y'see that old woman coming out of the hotel? What's her story, Father?"
"The widow Nolan. A sad history, Mr. Riley, if you could get it out of her; but it's few she'll talk to."
"Poor woman! Would you give her this—a couple of dollars—Father, after I'm gone?"
"I will. And it's good of you. And you're bound to speak to-night?"
"I'll speak. And I'd like you to come, Father."