“Pard—sit up,” said Neale, unsteadily. “Will you stay sober—and watch—and listen for some news of Allie?... Till I come back to Benton?”
“Neale, air you still dreamin’?” asked Larry, incredulously.
“Will you do that much for me?”
“Shore.”
“Thank you, old friend. Good-by now. I’ve got to rustle.” He left Larry sitting on his cot, staring at nothing. On the way to the station Neale encountered the gambler, Place Hough, who, despite his nocturnal habits, was an early riser. In the excitement of the hour Neale gave way to an impulse. Briefly he told Hough about Allie—her disappearance and probable hidden presence in Benton, and he asked the gambler to keep his eyes and ears open. Hough seemed both surprised and pleased with the confidence, and he said he would go out of his way to help Neale.
Neale had to run to catch the train. A brawny Irishman extended a red-sleeved arm to help him up.
“Up wid yez. Thor!”
Neale found himself with bag and rifle and blanket sprawling on the gravel-covered floor of a flat car. Casey, the old lineman, grinned at him over the familiar short, black pipe.
“B’gorra, it’s me ould fri’nd Neale.”
“It sure is. How’re you Casey?”