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"Is that his office?" Emma McChesney stiffened a little. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You have guessed it," she said crisply. "Mr. Buck's name is on the door, and you are looking at it." Miss Sweeney looked down, looked up, twiddled the chain about her neck. "You want to see Mr. Buck?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. Miss Sweeney simpered down at her glove-tips, fluttered her eyelids.
"I am gratified, of course, to find that the crusade is having its effect and that Los Angeles is beginning to enjoy the protection to which it is entitled, although the entire situation discloses the deplorable state of inefficiency in the police department and the failure of Chief Sweeney and the mayor to enforce the law."
"Shoot it!" said Engle. "Tell him that Elisha has gone dead lame can't hardly rest his foot on the ground." "That'll do for Sweeney!" said the Sharpshooter. "Elisha worked fine this morning. I clocked him myself." "But that was this morning," argued Squeaking Henry. "He must have bowed a tendon or something. His left foreleg is in awful shape." "Are you sure it's Elisha?" demanded Engle.
Closer and closer came the red lids over Pete's veritable disfigurement. Involuntarily his great nostrils opened. "Talk up there, Injun," he repeated slowly; and this time his voice was almost gentle. "My name's Sweeney, and I'm speakin' to you. What the devil are you here for?" No answer, not a sound; not even the twitching of an eyelid or a muscle. Ten seconds passed, fifteen.
He declared that he regarded Sweeney as "the world's greatest brain on all forms of athletics." Whenever Mike Sweeney puts his heart into his work he is one of the most completely absorbed men I know. Sweeney possesses an uncanny insight into the workings of the games and individuals. Oftentimes as he sits on the side lines he can foretell an accident coming to a player.
He pushed open the swinging door with an old gesture, and walked to his desk. Here he sat fumbling casually with proofs and the contents of pigeonholes. An old routine saying, "Pick me up." Familiar trifles rebuked him. The staff sauntered up one by one to greet him. Crowley, Mortinson, Sweeney. "Well, glad to see you back. We've sure missed you around here."
General Sweeney insisted that it was their last effort, and if we remained on the ground we would not be molested again. Major Sturgis, upon whom the command devolved after General Lyon's death, reasoned otherwise, and considered it best to fall back to Springfield.
The tramp grinned up at him. "Mebby not, pardner. You was tellin' Sweeney Orcutt back in Los Angeles that you wanted to get up against the real thing. I reckon you bought the right ticket this trip." "Will they will there be any shooting?" asked the Easterner. "Not if I can help it," replied Overland. "I borrowed your gun on the chance of it.
It did not seem either to enthuse or worry him very much. He said: "I just got a telegram from Mike Sweeney to wait and see him in New York before going to New Haven. I suppose he wants to advise me not to go and tackle the job, but I'm going just the same. Yale can't be much worse off for my going than she is to-day."
"You don't mind, sir?" he asked Taylor. "Certainly not. I like it." Sentinels, orderlies, aides and scouts gathered around the door as Sweeney played and sang with Stuart. The Cavalryman's spirit was contagious. Before the song had died away, they were all singing the chorus in subdued tones. Sweeney ended with Stuart's favorite Rock of Ages.
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