“Wal, rade, ye baboon.”
“Oh, I kin rade ut, though I ain’t much of a wroiter meself,” replied Casey, and then laboriously began to decipher the writing. He halted suddenly and looked keenly at McDermott.
“Wot the divil!... B’gorra, ut’s to me fri’nd Neale—an’ a love letter—an’—”
“Wal, kape it, thin, fer Neale an’ be dacent enough to rade no more.”
Lifting Beauty Stanton, they carried her out into the sunlight. Her white face was a shadowed and tragic record.
“Mac, she wor shure a handsome woman,” said Casey, “an’ a loidy.”
“Casey, yez are always sorry fer somebody.... Thot Stanton wuz a beauty an’ she mebbe wuz a loidy. But she wuz dom’ bad.”
“Mac, I knowed long ago thot the milk of human kindness hed curdled in yez. An’ yez hev no brains.”
“I’m as intilligint as yez any day,” retorted McDermott.
“Thin why hedn’t yez seen thot this poor woman was alive whin we packed her out here? She come to an’ writ thot letter to Neale—thin she doied!”