“What are you giving me? The Thunderer mare! Good Jupiter! What else?”
A couple of men step-danced with the mare to her place on the off lead; from a wheeler came the steady sound of practised kicking, and three voices gave information as one.
“Boss said not crawlers nor reg’lars, so———” “Ah, but it’s all one to you, Randal. You’ll manage anythin’ with hide on———”
“So we guv yer goers, an’ if yer larrup the mare circumstantial at the offset———” “Arrah, phwhat matther annyways? Yoimg Art’s neck is not wuth breakin’ at all, an’ Randal cares just that much for himsilf, ivery inch.”
“Art!” said Randal, and dropped the girth he was handling, “Art Scannell?”
“That’s him every time,” said Lossin from somewhere. “They’re bringin’ him now. Crickey! He ain’t dead yet.”
Randal caught at a flange of the great wedge of men that surged past.
“Derrett! Is he suffering?”
“Not pertic’lar. They’ve loaded him up wi’ whiskey what’d scupper any or’nary man, an’ he aint curlin’ an’ he ain’t drunk. Jest pious! An’ that’s a new line for Art. He’s bin playin’ wi’ the Salvation Army o’ late.”
Murray’s quick, alert tones cut the raffle of sound, and Randal saw the flash of his strong face above some dark struggling thing.
