Madge Bolton was the daughter of the ticket agent at the station, and between Mr. Bolton and Speckles there existed a standing feud, the _casus belli_ being fifteen-year-old, blue-eyed Madge. Speckles kicked his heels on the corner until she appeared; then he turned and fell into step beside her, reaching a little awkwardly for her strap of books. “Hallo, Dol!” was Madge’s greeting. She was the only person in Big Cloud who did not call him Speckles. “Hallo, Madge!” he returned. Madge glanced at his face and hands. “Haven’t you been to work?” she asked. “Nope.” “Why, Dol?” “Fired,” said Speckles laconically. “Oh, Dol, again!” she cried reproachfully. “What for?” “‘Tain’t only the third time, and ‘twasn’t for nothin’,” said Speckles, a bit sullenly. “I was only restin’.” “Dolivar Babson,” she accused, “you were loafing. Oh, Dol, you’ll never get to firing, and--and--” She hesitated and stopped, her cheeks a little red with the hint of boy-and-girl castle-building that would have increased her father’s ire against the luckless Speckles had he seen it. Speckles, somewhat shamefaced, and having no excuse to offer, trudged on in silence. “Did you ask Mr. Healy to take you back?” she inquired, after a moment. “He won’t,” said Speckles. “What are you going to do, Dol?” “I dunno.” “Well,” said Madge, hopefully, “perhaps you could get a job in one of the stores. I’ll ask Mr. Timmons, the grocer, if you like. I know him pretty well.” Speckles came to an abrupt and sudden halt, cast in Madge’s face one look that carried with it a world of unutterable reproach, handed over her books in silence--and fled. He, a railroad man, go into a _store!_ And this from Madge! Madge, who, of all others--it was too much! Speckles ate his dinner, dispirited and crushed. Everything and everybody was against him. His mother’s curt inquiry as to when he was going back to work did not in any way tend to mitigate his troubles--rather, on the contrary, to accentuate them. “Old Sour Face won’t put me back,” he jerked out, in response to his mother’s repeated question. “No wonder he won’t,” said his mother sharply, “if you’re as disrespectful as that. I’m ashamed of you, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Speckles was too much depressed to offer any defense. He finished his meal in silence, gulped down his cup of tea in two swallows, took his hat, and started out. Unconsciously he directed his steps toward the yards, and, some five minutes later, arrived at the station. Here, about half-way down the platform, he spotted Mat Bolton in the open doorway of the ticket office.