Smoking, waiting for the laggards to clean up their plates, the engineering gang—according to invariable man-custom—had begun experiences, jokes, arguments. Over all hung the pungent smell of strong, fresh coffee, and much frying bacon.
Baldy Jenkins, the eighteen-year-old had started it.
“Wish I had a million dollars,” he remarked.
Red Flannel Mike gave the ball a roll.
“You do not,” he denied stoutly. “Be givin’ you a million—and the Lord hisself only knows what you’d be a-doing wid it.”
“Hell I don’t,” said Baldy. “Bet I could tell you right now how I’d spend every penny of it.”
“Bet you don’t,” broke in another of the gang. “Fellow never does know what he’s goin’ to do till it hits him, square between the eyes.”
“Offer me a million,” insisted Baldy Jenkins.
“Aw, not that way. Take somep’n where two men might act different. You don’t know what you’d do. I don’t. No man does—no more’n that kid over there does.”
His lazy gesture indicated a small, khaki-trousered figure. The eyes of the rest of the gang followed.