A BOARD FENCE LOSES A PLANK
inside this working shanty some days after he had discovered Tom's identity, watching his bookkeeper preparing the pay-roll, when a face was thrust through the square of the window. It was not a prepossessing face, rather pudgy and sleek, with uncertain, drooping mouth, and eyes that always looked over one's head when he talked. It was the property of Mr. Peter Lathers, the yardmaster of the depot.
“When you're done payin' off maybe you'll step outside, sir,” he said, in a confiding tone. “I got a friend of mine who wants to know you. He's a stevedore, and does the work to the fort. He's never done nothin' for you, but I told him next time you come down I'd fetch him over. Say, Dan!” beckoning with his head over his shoulder; then, turning to Babcock,—“I make you acquainted, sir, with Mr. Daniel McGaw.”
Two faces now filled the window—Lathers's and that of a red-headed man in a straw hat.
“All right. I'll attend to you in a moment. Glad to see you, Mr. McGaw,” said Babcock, rising from the keg, and looking over his bookkeeper's shoulder.
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