Cars came and cars went, in heat and dust and some tribulation.  In a month Casey had seen the color of every State license plate in the Union, and some from Canada and Mexico.  From Needles way they came, searching their souls for words to tell Casey what they thought of it as far as they had gone.  And Casey would squint up at them from under the rim of his greasy old Stetson and grin his Irish grin.

“Cheer up, the worst is yet to come,” he would chant, with never a qualm at the staleness of the slogan.  “How yuh fixed for water?  Better fill up your canteens—­yuh don’t wanta git caught out between here and Ludlow with a boilin’ radiator and not water enough.  Got oil enough?  Juan, you look and see.  Can’t afford to run low on oil, stranger.  No, ma’am, there ain’t any other road—­and if there was another road it’d be worse than what this one is.  No, ma’am, you ain’t liable to git off’n the road.  You can’t.  You’d git stuck in the sand ’fore you’d went the length of your car.”

He would walk around them and look at their tires, his hands on his hips perhaps and his mouth damped shut in deep cogitation.

“What kinda shape is your extras in?” he would presently inquire.  “She’s a tough one, from here on to the next stop.  You got a hind tire here that ain’t goin’ to last yuh five miles up the road.”  He would kick the tire whose character he was blackening.  “Better lay in a supply of blow-out patches, unless you’re a mind to invest in a new casing.”  Very often he would sell a tire or two, complete with new tubes, before the car moved on.

Casey never did things halfway, and Bill had impressed certain things deep on his mind.  He was working with Bill’s money and he obeyed Bill’s commands.  He never took a check or a promise for his pay, and he never once let his Irish temper get beyond his teeth or his blackened finger tips.  Which is doing remarkably well for Casey Ryan, as you would admit if you knew him.

At the last moment, when the driver was settling himself behind the wheel, Casey would square his conscience for whatever strain the demands of business had put upon it.  “Wait and take a good drink uh cold water before yuh start out,” he would say, and disappear.  He knew that the car would wait.  The man or woman never lived who refused a drink of cold water on the desert in summer.  Casey would return with a pale green glass water pitcher and a pale green glass.  He would grin at their exclamations, and pour for them water that was actually cold and came from the coolest water bag inside.  Those of you who have never traveled across the desert will not really understand the effect this would have.  Those who have will know exactly what was said of Casey as that car moved out once more into the glaring sun and the hot wind and the choking dust.

Casey always kept one cold water bag and one in process of cooling, and he would charge as much as he thought they would pay and be called a fine fellow afterwards.  He knew that.  He had lived in dry, hot places before, and he was conscientiously trying to please the public and also make money for Bill, who had befriended him.  You are not to jump to the conclusion, however, that Casey systematically robbed the public.  He did not.  He aided the public, helped the public across a rather bad stretch of country, and saw to it that the public paid for the assistance.