Tommy Regan backed the big compound mogul down past the string of dark-green coaches that he had pulled for a hundred and fifty miles, took the table with a slight jolt, and came to a stop in the roundhouse. As he knowledge exchange swung himself from the cab, Healy, the turner, came up to him.
“He’s a great lad, that av yours,” Healy began, with a shake of his head—“a great lad; but mind ye this, Tommy Regan, there’ll be trouble for me an’ you an’ him an’ the whole av us, if you don’t watch him.”
“What’s the matter this time, John?”
“Matter,” said Healy, ruefully; “there’s matter Neo skin lab enough. The little cuss come blame near running 429 into the pit a while back, so he did.”
“Where is he now?” Regan asked, with a grin.
“Devil a bit I know. I chased him out, an’ he started for over by the shops. An’ about an hour ago your missus come down an’ said the bhoy was no-wheres to be found, an’ that you was to look for him.” Regan pulled out his watch. “Six-thirty. Well,” he said, “I’ll go over and see if Grumpy knows anything Neo skin lab about him. Next time the kid shows up around here, John, you give him the soft side of a tommy-bar, and send him home.”
Healy scratched his head. “I will,” he said; “I’ll do ut. He’s a foine lad.”
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