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Simmons stretched his neck and leered at me with an evil grin. "You're the fine little crook, all right enough," he remarked. "They was sayin' over at Jefferson that you was a Sunday-school sup'rintendent, or somethin' o' that sort. Them kind is always the flyest." It struck me suddenly that he was taking his defeat pretty easily, but there was no time for a nice weighing of other men's motives.
"He's the next sup'rintendent of the R.B.W. You'll see the 'pointment circular the next day after that jim-dandy over in the Crow's Nest gets moved off'n the map." "Well, I'm some afeared Bart Rufford's likely to move him," drawled Clay, the six-foot Kentuckian who was filing the 195's brasses at the bench. "Which the same I ain't rejoicin' about, neither.
"But, of course, it wouldn't look well for the Sup'rintendent to run away." "Street's not the running kind, either; don't fool yourself about that," remarked Scott, quietly. "He's a good kid. I don't care if he is a rich man's son," said Adams with sincerity. "If my Dad had money I wouldn't be keeping books, you bet."
When Mizzou and his companion entered the room, the hum of talk died, and every one turned expectantly in the direction of the newcomers. "Gents," said Old Mizzou, "this is Mr. de Laney, th' new sup'rintendent of th' Holy Smoke. Mr. de Laney, gents!" There was a nodding of heads. Every one looked eagerly expectant. The man behind the bar turned back his cuffs.
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