“Call-boys kind of scarce around your diggin’s since yesterday, ain’t they, Gilleen?” was Gleason’s greeting. “Yes,” said Gilleen. “I’m out.” “See you’re headin’ for the station,” remarked Gleason tentatively. “Goin’ down to patch it up?” “No!” answered Gilleen with a hard ring in his voice--the “no” was emphatic. Gleason stared at the engineer for a minute, then took a bite from his plug, and the motion of his head might have been a nod of understanding or merely a wrench or two to free his teeth from the black-strap in which they were imbedded. “No,” said Gilleen again; “I’m not. I’m goin’ down for another job.” “What kind of a job?” inquired Gleason. “Any kind from any one that will put me on--except Regan.” Gleason thought of his choked yards--the rush had in no way overlooked him. Men, men that knew a draw-bar and a switch-handle from a hunk of cheese, were as scarce in his department as they were in any of the others. “Yards?” he queried--and blinked. “D’ye mean it?” demanded Gilleen, taking him up short. “Sure, I mean it.” “You’re on,” said Gilleen. “Night switchman,” amplified the yard-master. “You can begin to-night.” “All right, I’ll be on deck,” agreed Gilleen; “an’ thanks, Gleason. I’m much obliged to you.” “Humph!” grunted Gleason. “‘Tain’t much of a stake compared with an engine, but it’s yours, an’ welcome.” It was quite true. Comparatively, it wasn’t much of a stake, and even the first night of it was enough to throw the comparison into strong and bitter relief. If anything would have put a finishing touch on Gilleen’s feelings anent the master mechanic it was that first night on yard switching, that and, of course, the nights that followed. It wasn’t so much the work, though that was hard enough, and, being green, the engineer made about twice as much for himself as there was any need of, it was a not-to-be-denied tendency of his eyes to stray toward the roundhouse every time a gleaming headlight showed on the turn-table. If Gilleen had never known before how much he loved an engine he knew it in those dark hours while he swung a lantern from the roofs of a freight string, or hopped the foot-board of the switcher. Up and down the yards from dusk till dawn, to the accompaniment of the wheezing, grunting, coughing, foreshortened apology for a shunter, the clash of brake-beams, the bump and rattle, staccato, diminuendo, as a line of box-cars grumbled into motion, didn’t take on any roseate hues from the angle Gilleen looked at it; nor did an occasional ten-wheeler, out or in, sailing grandly past him with impudent airs help any, either. Gilleen’s language became as freckled as his face and hands and as fiery as his head. Even that grand old Irish race from which he sprang, that wild and untamed breed of kingly sires paled into insignificance--Gilleen was more occupied with Regan. What he thought he said, and said it aloud without making any bones about it--said it through his teeth, with his fists clenched.