“Phwat’s—ye’re—name?” he queried.
“Neale.”
“It ought to be Casey. Fer there was niver but wan loike ye—an’ he was Casey.... Mon, ye’re sweatin’ blood roight now!”
Pat pointed at Neale’s red, wet shirt. Neale slapped his breast, and drops of blood and sweat spattered from under his hand.
“An’ shure ye’re hands are bladin’, too!” ejaculated Pat.
They were, indeed, but Neale had not noted that.
The boss, Reilly, passing by, paused to look and grin.
“Pat, yez got some one to kape up with to-day. We’re half a mile ahead of yestidy this time.”
Then he turned to Neale.
“I’ve seen one in yer class—Casey by name. An’ thot’s talkin’.”