"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 that picture o' that dago, or whoever he is, discoverin' the Mississippi on the back wall. "And now you"--Malone turned leisurely to a stocky-looking young fellow in seedy clothes standing wistfully off to one side--"you go on and pass the word to 'em as they come out o' the quarries." "All right," answered the stocky one in a hoarse voice, but without moving. A meagre-looking man stood behind the cigar-case. "Will you let me have," said Tim to him, "three good cigars?" The man behind the cigar-case looked slyly at Malone. "How good?" he asked. "Oh, pretty fair--three for a dollar or so." "Three for a--I got nothing like that here. Fifteen cents straight's the best I got." "All right; they'll do." The boss had not been smoking when Tim entered; but now he turned to look better at Tim, and he pulled a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off the end, scratched a match, and leisurely lit it--all without taking his eyes off Tim. Tim also leisurely bit the end off a cigar. The proprietor pushed three or four matches across the case. Tim, ignoring them, stepped close to the boss.