"Gross, then, Joe. Ten on the gross--or I give the job to the Ruggles
and Banks."
"Who's your bloomin' agent?" put in Ally Bazan.
"Nickerson. I sent him with Peterson on that _Mary Archer_ wreck scheme.
An' you know what Peterson says of him--didn't give him no trouble at
all. One o' my best men, boys."
"There have been," observed Strokher stolidly, "certain stories told
about Nickerson. Not that _I_ wish to seem suspicious, but I put it to
you as man to man."
"Ay," exclaimed Ally Bazan. "He was fair nutty once, they tell me. Threw
some kind o' bally fit an' come aout all skew-jee'd in his mind. Forgot
his nyme an' all. I s'y, how abaout him, anyw'y?"
"Boys," said Ryder, "I'll tell you. Nickerson--yes, I know the yarns
about him. It was this way--y'see, I ain't keeping anything from you,
boys. Two years ago he was a Methody preacher in Santa Clara. Well, he
was what they call a revivalist, and he was holding forth one blazin'
hot day out in the sun when all to once he goes down, _flat,_ an' don't
come round for the better part o' two days. When he wakes up he's
_another person;_ he'd forgot his name, forgot his job, forgot the whole
blamed shooting-match. _And he ain't never remembered them since._ The
doctors have names for that kind o' thing. It seems it does happen now
and again. Well, he turned to an' began sailoring first off--soon as the
hospitals and medicos were done with him--an' him not having any friends
as you might say, he was let go his own gait.
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