“Do you?” he said, dryly. “You’re clever! Do you know what Randal is? Do you know what any on us is?”
“Don’t tell it,” prayed Danny, pushing Conlon off the accordeon, and slipping his own hands into the slings. “It’s a five-day sarmon, reekin’ wi’ samples, and berginnin’ wi’ Lou———”
“Who went down to Jerusalem and fell among thieves,” clicked in Lou’s light, refined voice from the corner where he took down an outsider at Nap.
“Bedad, ye needn’t go seekin’ to Jerushlum for thim,” cried Tod—“wid th’ shirt stole off the back of me to putt on Moody when he goes to see his girl. Why don’t ye buy wan of your own wid the pennies ye take out of the Church-plate, Sundays?”
“’Twas nothin’ more’n a necktie, anyways,” said Moody, unabashed. “Not ernuff ter pin me collar to, an’ dirty at that. Does they on’y hev ha’pennies at Chapel then?”
“Buttons,” said the Blacksmith, and Danny chanted softly:
“‘We are all brothers in this land o’ dreamin.’”
The Packer woke with a snort.
“I knows what Randal is,” he said suddenly. “He’s them sort as wants a ’ole pack-’oss to hisself, and won’t balance up into a decent
