Tommy Regan wasn’t used to being “sir” ed--the Hill Division did its business with few handles and it wasn’t long on the amenities. “Humph!” he ejaculated with a snort, and a stream of black-strap laid the dust on a good few inches of engine cinders. “You can hand any thanks you’ve got coming over to Mother Coogan. And say”--the master mechanic wriggled his fat forefinger under Marley’s nose--“thanks are all right as far as they go, but I figure you owe her something over and above that, what?” A faint flush came into Marley’s cheeks and he darted a quick look at Regan. His eyes were on the ground and his hands had suddenly disappeared in his pockets before he answered. “I’m going to board with her a spell,” he said in a slow way, as though he was measuring every word before it was uttered. “Are, eh?” grunted Regan, but the grunt carried a grudging note of approval. “Well, maybe that’ll help some. You can report at noon, Marley, and make yourself generally handy around. I reckon you’ll find enough to do.” “Thanks, sir,” said Marley again, as he turned away. Regan, leaning on the turntable push-bar in front of the roundhouse, followed with his eyes as the other crossed the tracks in the direction of the town, then he spat profoundly again. “Queerest looking specimen that ever blew into the mountains, and we’ve had some before that were in a whole class by themselves at that,” he remarked, screwing up his eyebrows. “Makes you think of a blasted gorilla the way he’s laid out, what? Well, we’ll give him a try anyway,” and, with a final glance in the direction of the retreating figure, the master mechanic went into the roundhouse for his morning inspection of the big moguls on the pits. It took the division and Big Cloud some time to size up the new man, and then just about when they thought they had they found they hadn’t. Marley, if he was nothing else, was a contradictory specimen. Mrs. Coogan said it was like the good Lord was kind of paying her special attention, kind of giving her another son--“so quiet an’ accommodatin’ an’ handy to have around. A good bhoy was Marley--a foine lad.” One hand would rest on her hip, and the other would smooth the thin white hair over her ear with quick, nervous, little pats as she talked, and the gray Irish eyes, a little dim now, would light up happily. “Yes, ut’s more than I deserve; but I always knew the Lord wud provide.’tain’t so easy to move the tubs around as it uster be. I guess I knew it, but I wasn’t willin’ to admit it till I had somebody to do it for me. Sivinty-wan I was last birthday.’tain’t old for a man, but a woman--indade he’s a foine lad, an’ ‘tis myself that ses ut.” Down at headquarters Mrs. Coogan’s praise went a long way, and after Carleton and Regan and the others in the office got accustomed to seeing him around they came to accept him in a passive, indifferent sort of a way. He was a curious case, if you like, but inoffensive--they let it go at that.