ies here know of the last man here. If
you see the children in the street smiling slylike when you pass, that
will be why."

Tim pulled his lower lip with thumb and forefinger.

"And yet they'd laugh all the louder if I was to go away without
speaking, Father. What kind is Buck Malone to look at and where does he
hang out?"

The priest poked the end of his cane at Tim's chest.

"Is it fighting you'd be at, Mr. Riley?"

"It is not. I'm not for fighting--unless, of course, I have to. Isn't it
only natural to want to know what kind your opponent is?"

"So it is--so it is. Well, then, about this time o' day you'll find him
in that cigar-store with the sign out--below there. He's a contractor
himself, who furnishes labor for the quarries. A man about your height
and breadth he'll be, but a trifle fuller in the waist. A stout, strong
man, and not many able to look him down. An eye in his head, has Buck! I
wouldn't want to see the pair of ye at it."

"Thank you, Father. And look--d'y'see that old woman coming out of the
hotel? What's her story, Father?"

"The widow Nolan. A sad history, Mr. Riley, if you could get it out of
her; but it's few she'll talk to."

"Poor woman! Would you give her this--a couple of dollars--Father, after
I'm gone?"

"I will. And it's good of you. And you're bound to speak to-night?"

"I'll speak. And I'd like you to come, Father."

"Not I, Mr. Riley. Priests are better out of politics. Good day and God
speed you!"

Tim strolled toward the cigar-store; and drawing near he picked out,
standing near the glass case, a tall, powerfully built man, with
intelligently heavy features and the unwavering eyes of a fighting man.
As Tim entered this man was speaking. Before ten words had been said,
Tim knew that his entrance had been forecasted and that this was Buck
Malone.

"And he'll be up there on that platform all alone--not a soul with him,
because these two dubs that ought to be standing by him, they've got
cold feet already. And he'll be up there all alone, except for a pitcher
of cold water and a glass, and a table and a chair; and he'll begin to
spout. I dunno whether he c'n talk or not; but we'll let him run on for
maybe ten minutes, and about the time he thinks he's making a hit I'll
start up and I'll raise my forefinger like that--see? And that'll mean
everybody get up and go out. No hurry, mind you--nor no hustlin'; but
everybody just stand up and walk out and leave him talkin' to