clay and sand there. Already the swamp was a vast landscape of small
hills and valleys of new, soft soil, and soon it would burst into
streets and dwellings. That would mean more work, but Flannery did not
care; the company had allowed him a helper already, and Flannery had
hopes that by the time the swamp was populated Timmy would be of some
use. He doubted it, but he had hopes.

The four-thirty-two train had just pulled in, and Timmy had gone across
to meet it with his hand-truck, and now he returned. He came lazily,
pulling the cart behind him with one hand. He didn't seem to care
whether he ever got back to the office. Flannery's quick blood rebelled.

"Is that all th' faster ye can go?" he shouted. "Make haste! Make haste!
'Tis an ixpriss company ye are workin' fer, an' not a cimitery. T' look
at ye wan w'u'd think ye was nawthin' but a funeral!"

"Sure I am," said Tommy. "'Tis as ye have said it, Flannery; I'm th'
funeral."

Flannery stuck out his under jaw, and his eyes blazed. For nothing at
all he would have let Timmy have a fist in the side of the head, but
what was the use? There are some folks you can't pound sense into, and
Timmy was one of them.

"What have ye got, then?" asked Flannery.

"Nawthin' but th' corpse," said Timmy impudently, and Flannery did do
it. He swung his big right hand at the lad, and would have taught him
something, but Timmy wasn't there. He had dodged. Flannery ground his
teeth, and bent over the hand-truck. The next moment he straightened up