Some men would have hit up the claim agent for a stake; Shanley hit up Carleton for a job. But for modesty's sake, previous to presenting himself before the superintendent's desk, he borrowed from one of the wrecking crew the only available article of wearing apparel at hand—a very dirty and disreputable pair of overalls. Dirty and disreputable, but—whole.
"I want a job, Mr. Carleton," said he bluntly, when he had gained admittance to the super.
"You do, eh?" replied Carleton, looking him up and down. "You do, eh? You're a pretty hard-looking nut, h'm?"
Shanley blinked, but, being painfully aware that he undoubtedly did look all if not more than that, and being, too, not quite sure what to make of the super, he contented himself with the remark:
"I ain't a picture, I suppose."
"H'm!" said Carleton. "Been up at the wreck, I hear—what?"
"Yes," said Shanley shortly. No long story, no tale of what he'd done, no anything—just "Yes," and that was what caught Carleton.
"What can you do?" demanded the super.
"Anything. I'm not fussy," replied Chanley.
"H'm!" said Carleton. "You don't look it." And he favored Shanley with another prolonged stare.
Shanley, at first uncomfortable, shifted nervously from one foot to the other; then, as the stare continued, he began to get irritated.
"Look here," he flung out suddenly. "I ain't on exhibition." I come for a job. I ain't got any letters
