Howley was an angular-built young man, with a bony face, long nose and lack-luster eyes; sort of a colorless person, with only enough initiative to roll cigarets and use a mop. Stage driving was not exactly a lucrative occupation, and perhaps Hank might have been forgiven for adding Howley to his staff.
And, anyway, Hank was too busy electioneering to spend his valuable time in examining applicants for the position. From a word dropped here and there, Brick felt that Sam Leach was behind Hank’s campaign.
“Still there ain’t nothin’ funny about that,” decided Brick. “Me and Hank and Sam all belong to the same political party—and Sam don’t like me. Naturally he picks Hank.”
“Well,” remarked the philosophic Harp, “if yo’re beat, mebbe I’ll get a little rest. This here ed deputy job costs me a lot of sleep. And I’ve always got to be goin’ around, lookin’ like I knowed somethin’, when I don’t know a thing.”
“There’s a difference of sixty dollars a month between yore present job and punchin’ cows,” reminded Brick.
“Lot of difference in the sleep, too. By golly, I can go back to the old Nine-Bar-Nine and play m’ jew’s-harp unmolested, too.”
“Nobody stoppin’ yuh from moanin’ it around here, is there?”
“Yeah—moanin’! By golly, you ain’t got no appreciation for music, Brick. Moanin’ ! Yuh got to sing through it. How in do yuh expect me to play it, if I don’t sing into it?”
“I don’t expect yuh to play it, Harp. Nobody hankers for yuh to play it. Hang the thing up and let the wind play it.”
“Uh-huh.”