But while his extensive experience upon the road had developed habits of self-reliance and a certain readiness in emergencies, it was not calculated to impart that gloss or polish which enables one to shine in society. Hard Luck’s only appearance within the charmed circle had been when he acted as pall-bearer at the funeral of a division superintendent, and upon that occasion he had scandalized his colleagues by appearing without the conventional white gloves, and a hurried and embarrassed search of his pockets only brought to light a bunch of “waste” and a “soft hammer,” articles which, though almost indispensable on a locomotive, are not essential to the success of a well-ordered interment. Gamblers say that if one is but possessed of sufficient capital, the most persistent run of ill-luck may eventually be broken, and so it proved in Hosselkus’s case. An “officers’ special,” carrying the leading magnates of the road upon a tour of inspection, was expected, and Engine Seven-Seventy-Seven, the fastest locomotive on the division, and Bill Pearson, an engineer with a record, had been held in readiness for some time to take them out. The engine, with a full tank of the best coal, had already been run out of the roundhouse, and the train-dispatcher had the freights safely side-tracked, and satisfactory “meets” with the passenger-trains about figured out, when he was interrupted in his study of the train-sheet by a nervous ring at the telephone. The dispatcher answered it himself, and the foreman of the roundhouse announced that Pearson was sick, and unable to take the special out. “That’s bad,” mused the dispatcher, but added, a moment later: “Well, send the next best man, and get a move on; they’ll be here in ten minutes.” “They ain’t none,” replied the roundhouse. “No other engineer?” shouted the dispatcher. “Well, there’s only Perkins on the yard-engine and Hard Luck just in on Scott’s work-train--might double him out again--that’s all.” The dispatcher rushed into the adjoining room to consult the superintendent. It was in the midst of the busiest season, and every available engineer was out upon the road. “Hard Luck? nonsense!” said the superintendent when he was informed of the situation. “Tell Pearson he must take the special out--this is a nice time for him to get sick!” The roundhouse was notified, and replied that Pearson was “foamin’ awful--his wife’s got him jacked up and two doctors workin’ on him,” yelled the foreman. “This is terrible! _terrible!_” groaned the superintendent. “Perkins is only a boy, we can’t put him on, and Hosselkus will never get over the division without something happening--never in the world!” and the perspiration started upon his forehead. The whistle of the special aroused him to the necessity of immediate action. “Tell them to put Hosselkus on, and get him out as quick as possible--we are in the hands of Providence anyway, I suppose,” he added to himself.