"Describe him."

"Micky's face is a map of Ireland. He's got only one eye; a buck punched
the other out when he was a kid. His hair is red an' he wears it long."

"Any beard?"

"A bristly little red mustache."

"That's Micky to a T." Webb made up his mind swiftly. "The boy's all
right, Yankie. He'll do to take along."

"It's your outfit. Suits me if he does you." The foreman turned
insolently to the newcomer. "What'd you say your name was, sissie?"

The eyes of the boy, behind narrowed lids, grew hard as steel.

"Call me Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em," he drawled in a soft voice, every syllable
distinct.

There was a moment of chill silence. A swift surprise had flared into the
eyes of the foreman. The last thing in the world he had expected was to
have his bad temper resented so promptly by this smooth-faced little
chap. Since Yankie was the camp bully he bristled up to protect his
reputation.

"Better not get on the prod with me, young fellow me lad. I'm liable to
muss up your hair. Me, I'm from the Strip, where folks grow man-size."