Justice had his hotel full of these new workmen, of a class strange to that town. The importance of Damascus had more than doubled overnight. It was equal to a rain and cool wind to the despondent spirits bent down by the plundering they had suffered at a respected citizen's hands.
Little Jack Ryan stopped at Hall's office that afternoon, carrying two switch lanterns in each hand, his corncob pipe in the slit nature had provided for that purpose. His big chin was blue with close-cut stubble, as it always appeared the first few hours after shaving. By the next day it would be darker; after that, quite black. Dr. Hall could tell within five hours of Jack's last shave by the color of his chin.
Jack put the lanterns down, sighing in his way of weary oppression, wiping his forehead as if he had been relieved of responsibility for at least that division of the railroad for a little while. There was a satisfied twinkle in his sorrowful eyes, a cheerful look in his face for a man who lately had stood a loss so heavy.
That was the first visit Jack had made to Dr. Hall's door since the news of Burnett's plundering had reached Damascus. Jack had dodged meeting the doctor, skulking around as if ashamed of his simplicity in being so easily misled. Whatever his feelings had been, he appeared to have overcome them. He was his confident, well-satisfied self again, proud of the oily job he had, although ready to disparage it and chant of its hardships at every chance.
"Well," said Jack, "the caark blowed out of 'er."
"Pretty much of an explosion, they say, Jack. But you don't look very sad for a ruined man."
