Ten-Ichi's answer was a peal of demoniac laughter; and he laughed on and on interminably, slapping his thighs and flinging his arms around him after the manner of a man who is warming himself, until the faces of the others around him developed broad grins—and until the man who called himself Handsome brought him to with a sudden thrust of his arm which nearly took the breath out of the lad.
"What's eatin' you, you loon?" he demanded.
"I was laughing," replied Ten-Ichi, now as solemn as an owl.
"You don't say so! Were you? What at?"
"You. It is so funny that you should be called Handsome."
Handsome grinned with the others.
"Well," he said. "What's your name? Out with it!"
"I'm Tenstrike—Ten, for short. That's what."
"All right, Ten; you pass. You're harmless, I guess—unless you let out that laugh of yours at the wrong time. I would advise you not to do that. And you?" He turned now to Patsy, with a sudden whirl of his body. "You were the first of this bunch to get here. Who are you?"
"Sure," said Patsy, with a slow drawl, "I'm an Irishman, and me name doesn't matter to you. It's enough that they call me Pat. If ye don't happen to like it, sure you can call me Tim, or Mike, or Shamus, or any old thing that suits ye. And what am I here for, is it? Sure, I'm on a still hunt for a man I want to find. Mebby ye're after knowin' him."