Clarihue even went so far as to hint at it as a possibility to Marley, and for his pains got a surprise--he wasn’t used to seeing the chance of promotion turned down. Marley had shaken his head and would have none of it. He was satisfied where he was. That was all there was to that. Clarihue drew back into his shell after that. Marley could wipe till his hair was gray for all he cared. So Marley wiped; but at Mrs. Coogan’s cottage, as the summer waned, there wasn’t as much washing done as there had been, and the company doctor got to dropping in too frequently to put his visits down to the old-time occasional friendly calls for an afternoon chat. And then, one day in the early fall, the washing stopped altogether, and the doctor’s face was puckered and serious as he left the cottage and headed down Main Street to the station. He entered Carleton’s office and, after a few words between them, the super sent for Regan. That evening Carleton’s private car was waiting on the siding when Number Two, the Eastbound Limited, Chick Coogan’s old train, pulled in. As the little yard switcher importantly coughed the super’s car on to the rear Pullman, Regan, in his Sunday best, a store suit of black twill, with boiled shirt and stiff collar, came out of the station with Mrs. Coogan on his arm. An incongruous pair they looked. The little old lady’s walk was in painful contrast to the burly master mechanic’s stride--her short steps had a painful, hesitating, uncertain waver to them. One hand gripped tenaciously at Regan’s coat-sleeve, while the other held the faded, old-fashioned shawl close about her thin, bent shoulders. She carried her head drooped forward a little, hiding the face under the quaint poke bonnet. A moment later Carleton, too, emerged from the station and joined them. The station hands and the loungers eyed the trio with curiosity, and then stared in amazement as the two officials helped the old lady up the steps of the private car--Mrs. Coogan was getting the best of it, whatever it meant. The three disappeared inside, but presently Regan and Carleton came out again, and the super dropped to the station platform. He held out his hand to the master mechanic as Frank Knowles, the conductor, lifted his finger to Burke in the cab. “Good-by, Tommy; and good luck,” he called, as the train began to move out. “Don’t hurry, take all the time you need.” “All right,” Regan shouted back. “Good-by.” Carleton stood for a moment watching the tail lights grow dimmer until, finally, they shot suddenly out of sight with the curve of the track, then he turned to walk back along the platform--and stopped. Crouched back against the wall of the freight house, deep in the shadows, was Marley. “Here you, Marley,” Carleton called. Marley, evidently believing himself to have been unobserved, started violently, and then came slowly forward. “What are you hiding there for?” demanded the super.