pon him. Other men bereft of a
pleasure might have recourse to other delights, but Burney had only
two comforts in life. One was his pipe, the other was an ecstatic hope
that there would be no Speedways to build on the other side of Jordan.

At meal times he would let the other men go first into the grub-boat,
and then he would go down on his hands and knees, grovelling fiercely
upon the ground where they had been sitting, trying to find some stray
crumbs of tobacco. Once he sneaked down the river bank and filled his
pipe with dead willow leaves. At the first whiff of the smoke he spat
in the direction of the boat and put the finest curse he knew on
Corrigan--one that began with the first Corrigans born on earth and
ended with the Corrigans that shall hear the trumpet of Gabriel blow.
He began to hate Corrigan with all his shaking nerves and soul. Even
murder occurred to him in a vague sort of way. Five days he went
without the taste of tobacco--he who had smoked all day and thought
the night misspent in which he had not awakened for a pipeful or two
under the bedclothes.

One day a man stopped at the boat to say that there was work to be had
in the Bronx Park, where a large number of labourers were required in
making some improvements.

After dinner Burney walked thirty yards down the river bank away from
the maddening smell of the others' pipes. He sat down upon a stone. He
was thinking he would set out for the Bronx. At least he could earn
tobacco there. What if the books did say he owed Corrigan? Any man's
work was worth his keep. But then he hated to go without getting even
with the hard-hearted screw who had put his pipe out. Was there any
way to do it?

Softly stepping among the clods came Tony, he of the race of Goths,
who worked in the kitchen. He grinned at Burney's elbow, and that
unhappy man, full of race animosity and holding urbanity in contempt,
growled at him: "What d'ye want, ye--Dago?"

Tony also contained a grievance--and a plot. He, too, was a Corrigan
hater, and had been primed to see it in others.

"How you like-a Mr. Corrigan?" he asked. "You think-a him a nice-a
man?"

"To hell with 'm," he said. "May his liver turn to water, and the
bones of him crack in the cold of his heart. May dog fennel grow upon
his ancestors' graves, and the grandsons of his children be born
without eyes. May whiskey turn to clabber in his mouth, and every time
he sneezes may he blister the soles of his feet. And