The huge miner didn't say one word or the other to Jack's questions, and the best the Newfie could figure was that the man still didn't know what to make of this short, vibrant madman with an open grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye. That was fine, though. He wasn't the first person who didn't know what to make of Jack Pumphrey, and Jack was damned sure he wouldn't be the last. There was no college education in Jack's background, nor was he the most intelligent of men, but the handyman was all too aware that he probably came across as something of a character to others. In a way... he preferred it as such.

Content with things as they were, he continued to busy himself cleaning off the tools until they shone if not like new then close enough to it that it made no difference. It was annoying though. The tools he wiped down, degreased, oiled, buffed away rust, re-oiled again had no soul. These were tools that belonged to the shop, not to any one man, and Jack frowned a bit at that. To him, a great deal of the pride he took in his work and the jobs he had done was to be found in knowing that it was his own hands and his own tools that were involved, tools that he had paid for himself! In his family, you didn't use another man's hammer. You could ask, sure, and if it was in a pinch anyone could understand! But were these military folks [i]really[/i] expected to use just whatever was provided to them?! Where the hell was the pride in that?! No wonder the shop was a bloody mess!

Still, there was no use getting worked up over it. In the end, a tool was a tool and should be treated with some respect and care. Were he a more imaginative man, he might have drawn comparisons between tools and children: just because it wasn't yours it doesn't mean you should't look after it! After all, even if that screwdriver there with the shiny plastic handle and rust covered tip wasn't your own battered wooden handled one with a fine patina on the metal, it could still get the job done and save the day. Or even your life! Jack happily busied himself until all the tools were again in their proper racks and drawers, frowning when he noticed a few sockets were missing from the torque set. Nothing to be done there, so he moved on to wiping down the benches and putting away all the solvents.

Just as he finished tossing a handful of used rags into a bucket for recycling, he looked up to see a pretty young woman exiting the one office. The sight of her made the earthy man smile happily, him being a man always glad to see a friendly face and especially after the dour and volatile miner who was engrossed in cleaning drill parts nearby!

"Missus," he drawled genially by way of greeting, nodding his head towards her, "Whaddya at?!" A friendly soul to the end, Jack wiped his hands off on a last rag and bucketed it before turning back to extend one of those working hands towards her. Without even asking, he took up the garbage things from her like it was exactly what he was there to do. The smell of the one bag made him wrinkle his nose a bit. "Sure, an' dat's some hum! Phew! Near poisoned, I am. i'll take this, never you mind, missus. Jack Pumphrey, custodial chummy or what have you. Who's you den?" His tone was light and genial as he slipped the bags onto an empty cart to haul them away.