Part 28 (1/2)

”Well?” snapped Regan, whirling about.

The monosyllable was cold enough in its uncompromise to stagger the little hostler, and drive all thoughts of the carefully rehea.r.s.ed oration he had prepared from his head. He scratched aimlessly at the half circle of gray billy-goat beard under his chin, and blinked helplessly at the master mechanic. Noodles lacked much, and in Noodles was much to be desired perhaps--but Noodles, for all that, had his place in the Irish heart that beat under the greasy jumper.

”He's the only wan we've got, Regan,” stammered the hara.s.sed roundhouse man appealingly.

”It's a wonder, then, you've not holes in the knees of your overalls giving thanks for it,” declared Regan grimly. ”That's enough, Bill--and we've had enough of Noodles. Keep him away from here.”

”Ah, sure now, Regan,” begged the little hostler piteously, ”yez don't mean ut. The bhoy's all right, Regan--'tis but spirit he has. Regan, listen here now, I've larruped him good for fwhat he's done--an' 'twas no more than a joke.”

”A joke!” Regan choked; then brusquely: ”That'll do, Bill. I've said my last word, and I'm busy this afternoon. Noodles is out--for keeps.”

”Ah, Regan, listen here”--Noodles' father caught the master mechanic's arm, as the latter turned away. ”Regan, sure, ut's the bhoy's G.o.dfather yez are.”

The fat little master mechanic's face went suddenly red--this was the last straw--_Noodles' G.o.dfather_! Regan had been catching more whispers than he had liked lately anent G.o.dfathers and G.o.dfathering.

His eyes puckered up and he wheeled on the boiler-washer--but the hot words on the tip of his tongue died unborn. There was something in the dejected droop of the other's figure, something in the blue eyes growing watery with age that made him change his mind--old Bill wasn't a young man. As far back as the big-hearted, good-natured master mechanic could remember, he remembered old Bill--in the roundhouse.

Always the same job, day after day, year after year--boiler-was.h.i.+ng, tinkering around at odd jobs--not much good at anything else--church every Sunday in s.h.i.+ny black coat, and peaked-faced Mrs. Maguire in the same threadbare, s.h.i.+ny black dress--not that Regan ever went to church, but he used to see them going there--church every Sunday, Maguire was long on church, and week days just boiler-was.h.i.+ng and tinkering around at odd jobs--a dollar-sixty a day. Regan's pucker subsided, and he reached out his hand to the boiler-washer's shoulder--and he grinned to kind of take the sting out of his words.

”Well, Bill,” he said, ”as far as that goes, I renounce the honor.”

”Raynownce ut!” The boiler-washer's eyes opened wide, and his face was strained as though he had not heard aright. ”Raynownce ut! Ut's an Irish Protystant yez are, Regan, the same as me an' the missus, an' did yez not say the words in the church!”

”I did,” admitted Regan; ”though I've forgotten what they were. It was well enough, no doubt, for a kid in swaddling clothes--but it's some time since then.” Then, with finality: ”Go back to your work, Bill--I can't talk to you any more this afternoon.”

”Raynownce ut!” The words reached Regan as he turned away and started across the tracks toward the platform, and in their tones was something akin to stunned awe that caused him to chuckle. ”Raynownce ut!--an'

yez said the words forninst the priest!”

Regan's chuckle, however, was not of long duration, either literally or metaphorically. During the rest of the afternoon the boiler-washer's words got to swinging through Regan's brain until they became an obsession, and somewhere down inside of him began to grow an uncomfortable foreboding that there might be something more to the G.o.dfathering business than he had imagined. He tackled Carleton about it before the whistle blew.

”Carleton,” said he, walking into the super's office, and picking up a ruler from the other's desk, ”don't laugh, or I'll jam this ruler down your throat. If you can answer a straight question, answer it--otherwise, let it go. What's a G.o.dfather, anyhow?”

Carleton grinned.

”You ought to know, Tommy,” he said.

”I was running without a permit and off schedule at the time, and I was nervous,” said Regan. ”What happened, or what the goings-on were, I don't know. What is it?”

Carleton shook his head gravely.

”I'm afraid not, Tommy,” he said. ”You're in the wrong shop.

Information bureau's downstairs to the right of the ticket office.”

”Thanks!” said Regan.

And that was all the help he got from Carleton--then. But that night over their usual game of pedro in the super's office, it was a little different. Carleton, as he pulled the cards out of the desk drawer and tossed them on the table, pulled a small book from his pocket and tossed it to Regan.

”What's this?” inquired the master mechanic.

”It's not to your credit to ask--it's a prayer book,” Carleton informed him. ”Be careful of it--I borrowed it.”