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But before Bob’s mind had accepted the fact that a Greaser was sitting up here in the moonlight, instead of gambling or watching a cock fight down in the Townsite, a crackling in the underbrush to the right caught his attention. A moment later a figure stepped out into the clearing. To his dismay, he recognized the approaching man. “Yep,” answered Bob. Virtue's sigh, and Sorrow's moan!.
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Conrad
The inspection trips he had made outside of working hours now proved a great help, for he knew the quickest way to the place the Chief was supposed to be. Setting out on a run he was soon there. Mr. Whitney was engaged in conversation with the foreman but broke off as the boy rushed up. “Come on, Jerry,” Bob said; “let’s be getting back.” For that was just the way the trouble began. He had been walking on his tallest stilts the whole afternoon—the stilts that were exactly, to the dot, one yard fifteen inches and a half tall—and then had sat himself on the fence along the back alley. He was facing the yard, with his back toward the alley, and that disgusting Olsen boy came past and gave him a dig in the back with that sharp stick. Just think of it! Wouldn’t anybody say it was unbearable? “Gee, that’s tough!” commented Bob, happy that Mr. Whitney had enough confidence to tell him all these things. “But about the Mexicans; you don’t suspect anyone around the job is the trouble maker, do you?”.
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