Danny showed a rip in his trouser-leg, and spat emphatically.
“Some more o’ that if we got ter deliver ’em. Scannell expects four-ten, and Pike don’t elucidate to it. He’s givin’ Art the wet side of his tongue over it, I guess.”
Two yards off was Art Scannell with his dogs at heel and a red-whiskered man opposite. Art was booted and breeched, and his dark delicate face and small head carried the charm and the grace of his sister. But his walk and his speech were uncertain, and the pupil of his eye too dull. Danny watched the rising storm cheerfully, and he chuckled as Art kicked, his dogs apart and moved off with a curt-flung entence.
“Sell ’em himself, will he? I seen him do that wonst. I seen him balustradin’ on the rails sellin’ pigs. ‘One-four,’ he yells out; ‘one-four—one-four,’ and smack! over he pitches atop of the pigs, an’ old Backrip, he yells out—‘Darn it. Art, but it’s one for you this time.’ Then Randal—being allers superflous—goes in an’ yanks him out an’ cleans him down. That's young Art doin’ sellin’.”
The Packer stuck his lean eagle-face over Hynes’ shoulder.
“There ain’t no men these days,” he said. “We cud drink proper when I was young. Big Jos Creer—you know Jos?”
