“Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me,” said Margaret, springing lightly over the wheel and turning away with Mrs. Boyle toward the house, which was humming with that indescribable but altogether bewitching medley of sounds that only a score or two of girls overflowing with life can produce.
“Come along, Charley,” roared Magee. “We're waitin' to make ye the boss.”
“All right, Tom,” replied the little man, with a quiet chuckle. “If you make me the boss, here's my orders, Up you get yourself and take hold of the gang. What do you say, men?”
“Ay, that's it.” “Tom it is.” “Jump in, Tom,” were the answering shouts.
“Aw now,” said Tom, “there's better than me here. Take Big Angus there. He's the man fer ye! Or what's the matter wid me frind, Rory Ross? It's the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put the fire intil ye!”
There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour of Rory's hair and face.
“Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee,” said the fiery-headed, fiery-hearted little Highlander. “When he's wanted, ye'll not find him far away, I'se warrant ye.”
There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, both famous captains, and more than once had they led the opposing forces at raisings. The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was relieved by Charley Boyle's ready wit.
“We'll divide the work, boys,” he said. “Some men do the liftin' and others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the yellin'.”
A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a worker was none too brilliant.