Jimmie, well aware of his dire position, was too clever, however, to let Rourke seize him.  During all this conversation he had been slowly backing away, always safely beyond Rourke’s reach, and now ran—­an amazing feat for him.  He had evidently been through many such scenes before.  He retreated first behind the depot, and then when Rourke had gone to work once more down in his hole, came back and took a safe position on guard over the hitherto sadly neglected opening.  When the next train came he was there to shove the boards over before it neared the station, and nothing more was said about the matter.  Rourke did not appear to notice him.  He did not even seem to see that he was there.  The next morning, however, when the latter came to work as usual, it was, “Come, Matt!  Come, Jimmie!” just as if nothing had happened.  I was never more astonished in my life.

An incident, even more ridiculous, but illustrative of the atmosphere in which Rourke dwelt, occurred at Highbridge one frosty October Sunday morning, where because of seepage from a hill which threatened to undermine some tracks, Rourke was ordered to hurry and build a drain—­a thing which, because the order came on Saturday afternoon, required Sunday labor, a most unusual thing in his case.  But in spite of the order, Rourke, who was a good Catholic, felt impelled before coming to go to at least early mass, and in addition—­a regular Sunday practice with him, I presume—­to put on a long-skirted Prince Albert coat, which I had never seen before and which lent to his stocky figure some amusing lines.  It was really too tight, having been worn, I presume, every Sunday regularly since his wedding day.  In addition, he had donned a brown derby hat which, to me at least, gave him a most unfamiliar look.

I, being curious more than anything else and wishing to be out of doors as much as possible, also went up, arriving on the scene about nine.  Rourke did not arrive until ten.  In the meantime, I proceeded to build myself a fire on the dock, for we were alongside the Harlem River and a brisk wind was blowing.  Then Rourke came, fresh from church, smiling and genial, in the most cheerful Sunday-go-to-meeting frame of mind, but plainly a little conscious of his grand garb.

“My,” I said, surveying him, “you look fine.  I never saw you dressed up before.”

“L’ave aaf with yer taalk,” he replied.  “I know well enough how I look—­good enough.”

Then he bestirred himself about the task of examining what had been done so far.  But I could see, in spite of all the busy assurance with which he worked, that he was still highly conscious of his clothes and a little disturbed by what I or others might think.  His every-day garb plainly suited his mood much better.