A shifting, colorful, strenuous scene of toil!
Gradually Neale felt that he was fitting into this scene, becoming a
part of it, an atom once more in the great whole. He doubted while
he thrilled. Clearly as he saw, keenly as he felt, he yet seemed
bewildered. Was he not gazing out at this construction work through
windows of his soul, once more painted, colored, beautiful, because
the most precious gift he might have prayed for had been given him
--life and hope for Allie Lee?
He did not know. He could not think.
His comrade, Pat, wiped floods of sweat from his scarlet face. "I'll
be domned if ye ain't a son-of-a-gun fer worrk!" he complained.
"Pat, we've been given the honor of pace-makers. They've got to keep
up with us. Come on," replied Neale.
"Be gad! there ain't a mon in the gang phwat'll trade fer me honor,
thin," declared Pat. "Fri'nd, I'd loike to live till next pay-day,"
"Come on, then, work up an appetite," rejoined Neale.
"Shure I'll die.... An' I'd loike to ask, beggin' ye're pardon,
hevn't ye got some Irish in ye?"
"Yes, a little."
"I knowed thot.... All roight, I'll die with ye, thin."
In half an hour Pat was in despair again. He had to rest.
"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.
Pages:
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512