he struck anything down here that there was any money in he’d let me in on it. Shall I drive the ships in and hitch?”
A look of supreme, almost incredulous, delight—dawned in Keogh’s ruddy countenance. He dropped his pencil. His eyes turned upon the sunburned young man with joy in them mingled with fear lest his ecstasy should prove a dream.
“For God’s sake tell me,” said Keogh, earnestly, “are you Dink Pawson?”
“My name is Pinkney Dawson,” said the cornerer of the cockleburr market.
Billy Keogh slid rapturously and gently from his chair to his favourite strip of matting on the floor.
There were not many sounds in Coralio on that sultry afternoon. Among those that were may be mentioned a noise of enraptured and unrighteous laughter from a prostrate Irish-American, while a sunburned young man, with a shrewd eye, looked on him with wonder and amazement. Also the “tramp, tramp, tramp” of many well-shod feet in the streets outside. Also the lonesome wash of the waves that beat along the historic shores of the Spanish Main.
