“What is your name, driver?” he asked, as the other was about to mount his box.
“John Mulligan, sor.”
“German, of course?” smiling.
“Yis, sor, direct from Cork.”
“Where can you be found in the morning about ten o’clock?”
The man gave his stand.
“Then consider yourself engaged by myself from ten to twelve, and wait for me.”
The hack rattled down the street.
Darrell looked after it and shook his head—he did not know really what to think.