"Hello, Dan! You back?" Daney greeted him. "Glad to see you. Looking for Mr. Donald?"
"Yes, sor; thank you, sor."
"Mr. Donald is ill in the company's hospital. We're afraid, Dan, that he isn't going to pull through."
"Glory be!" Mr. O'Leary gasped, horrified on two counts. First, because he revered his young boss, and, second, because the latter's death might nullify his opportunity to become foreman of the loading-sheds and drying-yard. "Sure, what's happened to the poor bhoy?"
Before Daney could answer, a terrible suspicion shot through the agile and imaginative O'Leary brain. In common with several million of his countrymen, he always voiced the first thought that popped into his head; so he lowered that member, likewise his voice, peered cunningly into Andrew Daney's haggard face, and whispered:
"Don't tell me he tried to commit suicide, what wit' his poor broken heart an' all!"
It was Andrew Daney's turn to peer suspiciously at Dirty Dan. For a few seconds, they faced each other like a pair of belligerent game-cocks. Then said Daney:
"How do you know his heart was broken?"
Dirty Dan didn't know. The thought hadn't even occurred to him until ten seconds before; yet, from the solemnity of Daney's face and manner, he knew instantly that once more his feet were about to tread the trails of romance, and the knowledge imbued him with a deep sense of importance.
He winked knowingly.