Taleverna

Smoking, waiting for the laggards to clean up their plates, the engineering gang--according to invariable man-custom--had begun experiences, jokes, arguments. Over all hung the pungent smell of strong, fresh coffee, and much frying bacon. Baldy Jenkins, the eighteen-year-old had started it. “Wish I had a million dollars,” he remarked. Red Flannel Mike gave the ball a roll. “You do not,” he denied stoutly. “Be givin’ you a million--and the Lord hisself only knows what you’d be a-doing wid it.” “Hell I don’t,” said B…