“Where have you come from now?” said Flick, waking up.
“Had a try at Alasky, sunk it all in a bum mine and a phony partner,” said O’Leary. “Got as far as Kansas City and got trimmed by a pickpocket while I snoozed. Boys, I certainly was up against it there. Had to take a job as a coachman. Mighty little I had to go on, but luck was with me. Usually is, wherever I tumble. The horses were a couple of baa-lambs that an infant could have harnessed, let alone driven. That was all right, I bluffed through that. But the old lady was a terror. The old man had struck it sudden, and she was wallowing in that carriage. She was fierce. She was a fat woman, and she swore like a mule-driver. I tell you, that month was something awful. I stood it until she drove down to the bank and paid me off, jabbing me in the back with her parasol and swearing directions under her breath. I’ve stood a good deal in my little canters around this globe, but I can’t stand being sworn at by a fat woman on a public street.”
“What did you do?” said Tootles, adding a curling strip of brown potatoes, smothered onions, and splashes of beans, peas, and carrots to each plate.
“With fifty dollars tucked away, I laid for her until out she came with a final poke in the ribs. Then I hauled in my horses, took off my livery, made her a bow, and handed it over to her with the reins, right there in the main street. By jingo, it was worth it to see her face!”
“What’s the queerest job you ever landed?” said Flick, savoring the steak with gratitude.
“Queerest?” said O’Leary, scratching his head and seeming to return over a long and grotesque line. “I’ve done some funny things in my time.”
“Tell you what I did over in Chattanooga—in red-hot midsummer, too,” said Flick, in a burst of confidence. “I was a dog-catcher.”
“That certainly is going down for it,” said O’Leary, grinning. “But I’ve got you beat. I subbed in a face-parlor.”
“A what?”