red-faced, gaunt and grim, Cassidy loomed up beside her. Behind them,
in attitudes of more or less perfunctory interest, stood a
white-capped cook from the commissary-tent, who had come out to get
away from the flies, two vague-visaged unknowns from the vast
under-world of hobodom, and a greasy, loose-lipped fireman with a
dirty red sweater and a contemptuous eye.

"Go on!" whispered the woman. She threw one of her swift, compelling
glances at Cassidy. "Say something!" And Cassidy obeyed; he could not
have refused if he had tried.

It became at once apparent that he must make no rambling talk. The
history of the past five days, while illuminating and diverting, could
not be calculated to inspire the casual onlooker with religious awe.
If aught was to be said, it must, perforce, be meaty and direct.

Cassidy grasped the irritating fireman firmly by the arm. Fixing him
with a baleful eye, he spoke:

"This yere lady has wanted me to say something tuh yuh about her
husband dyin'. As far as I kin understand, that part is all right.
That's what he done. He's dead, all right; there ain't no mistake
about _that_. Wot I'm askin' _yuh_ is: Was he a _man_? Was he good for
anything? Wot did he do when he wasn't workin'? Was he a low, mean
cuss, always goin' round with bums?"

"How do I know?" asked the fireman, in an aggrieved tone. "Ouch! Say,
leggo my arm!"

Cassidy's grip tightened. The fireman groaned dismally and subsided.