It was reported an hour late, some one said.
So Casey rubbed his strapped leg, twisting his face at the cramp in his knee and letting his companions believe that his accident had given him a heritage of pain.

He hitched his lifted shoulder into an easier position and picked up another unfortunate assortment of five cards.
At ten o'clock Bill, the garage man, came and whispered something to Casey, who growled an oath and reached almost unconsciously for his crutches before trying to get up; so soon is a habit born in a man.
"What they raisin' thunder about ?" he asked apathetically, when Bill had helped him across the gutter and into the street.

"Didn't the crowd turn out like they expected ?" Casey's tone was dismal.

You simply cannot be a cripple for twenty-four hours, and sit up playing unlucky poker all night and all day and well into another night, without losing some of your animation; not even if you are Casey Ryan.

"Hell, I missed that train again," he added heavily, when he heard it whistle into the railroad yard.
"Too bad.