Here followed a volcanic eruption of guttural German with one or two words common to all languages intermingled. Then, flying through the doorway of the lunchroom, dashing down the platform, scattering loungers, passengers, and car-tinks in all directions, in a mad rush for the engine end of the train, tore a short figure in tight-fitting, bandy-legged overalls, whose flaming red hair presented a shining mark for the plate that whizzed past his ear and smashed into a hundred pieces against a baggage-truck. And Dutchy, blowing hard, his sleeves rolled up over the fat of his arms, waddled to the center of the platform and shook a frantic fist after the retreating engineer. “Ta fool iss no longer yet, don’d it?” he screamed, and, puffing his cheeks in and out like a whezzy injector, he turned, reentered the restaurant, and the door closed behind him with a resounding bang. MacDonald drew in his head, and the tears were running down his cheeks as he held his sides. Thornley groped for a chair. “Guess Taggart was asking for a rebate,” he gasped. “It was worth pay to see him run.” “You bet!” said MacDonald eloquently, when he could get his breath. The door opened, and Brett, the super, came in. “D’ye see Taggart and Dutchy, Brett?” cried Thornley. “Yes,” said Brett, laughing. Then, more seriously: “Look here, you’d better patch it up with Dutchy. There’s no use rubbing it in too hard. MacDonald, tell Blaney to put my car on Number Two when she comes in. I’m going east to-night.” The patching, however, was quite a different matter than talking about it. The next morning the lunch-room door was ominously closed--and the staff went breakfastless. By listening at the keyhole, and from an occasional glimpse through the window, they knew that Dutchy was inside. But to pleadings, threats, and door-kickings the occupant was, to all intents and purposes, oblivious. Things began to look serious for the staff and station hands who were wont to depend on Dutchy for their grub-stakes. Thornley whistled softly and pulled at his pipe, his feet on the dispatcher’s desk. “He’ll _have_ to open up when Number Ninety-Seven pulls in,” Thornley was saying, more by way of reassuring himself than of presenting any new view of the case to MacDonald. “The company won’t stand for any inconvenience to the passengers--that is” he hastened to amend, “not of this kind. What? They’ve got a sort of lien on that joint, and if he waits for them to get after him he’ll get into trouble. Wish Brett were back--he’d make him open up quick, I guess. What’s the matter with Number Ninety-Seven, anyhow? Thought you said she was on time?” “So she is,” said MacDonald, grinning. “Hear her?” From the eastward came the hoarse shriek from the whistle of a five-hundred class. “Guess I’ll go down,” said Thornley. “Coming?”