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How the devil does the company happen to have such an old fossil on the job?" "Quilty's a left-over from construction days. He's been here ever since steel was laid. They say he averted a bad smash once by sheer nerve or pure Irish luck. Anyway, he has a sort of guarantee of his job for life. Not a bad old boy when you get to know him."
But Casey, fearful of Mr. Quilty's descriptive powers, saw fit to interrupt. "Hello! What's all the row? That you, Corney?" "Yer owner has saved yer life," Mr. Quilty informed Feng. "Sure ut's me, Casey. I'm after l'arnin' this Oriental curse iv the wurruld how to talk to his betters." He mounted the steps, peering suspiciously at the occupants of the veranda. "Who's these?" he demanded.
A hurt look crept into Mr. Quilty's eyes of faded blue. "I regret that I have no messages for ye, sor," said he. "The comp'ny's land agent, Mr. Sleeman, will take ye wherever ye want to go in his autymobile. Ye will see his sign as ye go uptown. But, speakin' as man to man, Mr. Farwell, and havin' the interests of thim that pays me to heart, I w'u'd venture on a little advice."
Thence he clanked his spurs into Mr. Quilty's sanctum. That gentleman, nodding somnolently above a blackened clay pipe, rolled an appraising eye at him. "Fwhere in Hiven's name is the maskyrade at?" he queried sourly. "An' do yez riprisint Wild Bill Hickox rest his sowl or th' 'Pache Kid th' divil burn him!"
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