Sullivan was such another waif as Farrell, but older, and with not so fair a chance of settling ever into the framework of conventional living. Twice he had crossed the Atlantic as a deck-hand on a cattle-ship, and, therefore, he knew the nether depths of depravity, but he boasted nothing of his knowledge. Once only, there came into his voice a note of exultation. It was at the end of an account of a thirty days’ term that he once served in the Bridewell, at Chicago. The description was admirable, for the memory of it was strong upon him, and he unconsciously made you see the prison and the keepers, and the flocking of the prisoners into the inner court in the morning, each from his separate cell. “They knowed me there for _Cuckoo_ Sullivan,” he said, “which was the name the cops in Chicago give me; and I guess they’d know yet who you was after, if you asked at the Harrison Street Station for _Cuckoo_ Sullivan.” We moved presently to a little platform near the line and were sitting on the steps smoking contentedly while there came to us the soughing of the night air in the corn. Sullivan was telling me of a long stay in Oklahoma and the Indian Territory, of the wild days of the opening of the reservation, and wilder days, when, with other adventurers, he roamed the new lands and lived at give and take with strange fortune. He told me of his loves, and they were many and some of them were dusky; and of the fights that he had fought, not all of them good; and how, finally, he had drifted north again as far as Scotia, Neb., and had worked there as a section-hand before coming to Buda. Sullivan and I were friends when we turned in that night to our cots in the attic under the shanty roof. Next morning Osborn paired us as partners, when the day’s work began. On the stroke of seven we four opened the tool-house and loaded the car with the crowbars and wrenches and picks and shovels that would be needed, then placing our dinner pails on top, we ran the car out to the line and lifted it into position.