Another minute and the shop whistle had boomed out its warning, and as Healy, with the man who had gone after him, came tearing down the track like mad, Speckles saw the smoke beginning to curl up over the roof at the back. The running-shed was afire. With a whoop, Speckles traversed the platform, leaped to the rails, and was hard on Healy’s heels by the time the turntable was crossed. Healy paused but an instant. The thing to do was to get the engines out, and Healy was the man to do it. “Get tackle rigged on 463,” he ordered. “She’s cold, an’ we’ll have to haul her out. Set the table fer 518; I’ll take her.” Then he started on the jump for the cubby-hole and his precious papers. Now, the tackle that Healy had referred to was stored in the rear of the roundhouse in the same general direction as the cubby-hole, and as the order had been given to no one in particular, Speckles, shouting “I’ll get it,” started after Healy. Some grease and waste had caught and was rolling up a nasty smoke. Through it, even while he tugged manfully at the heavy tackle, Speckles saw Healy run into his office, snatch his coat, rush out again, and dash for the cab of 518, throwing the coat up on the tender. As he did so, something fell from the pocket. Speckles dropped the tackle and pounced upon it. It was the bundle of papers he had seen Healy put in his coat-pocket a little while before. It was Healy’s invention! Speckles’ first impulse was to shout to Healy, but just then 518 glided out of the shed, and the men in front of 463 were yelling in chorus for the tackle, so Speckles put his tongue in his cheek and the papers in his pocket. It wasn’t much of a blaze, but it looked bad while it lasted. Even after the shop-hands had got their hose-lengths connected and a stream playing on the fire, and the engines were all in safety in the yard, the smoke continued to roll out in clouds, with here and there a vicious tongue of flame. Then Healy, his duty done, bethought him of his coat on the tender of 518. And Speckles, as he heard Healy’s gasp of dismay on discovering that his papers were gone, had an inspiration. “Me papers! Me papers!” wailed Healy. “Fer the love av Mike, I must av dropped thim on the flure!” “I’ll get them for you, Mr. Healy,” said Speckles, quick as a shot. “You’ll not!” said Healy. “I’ll have no wan risk his life fer thim, bad as I want thim. Hey, come back, you runt!” But Speckles was gone. Headed straight for the big, yawning doors that vomited their smoke and flames? Oh, no, not Speckles! Hardly! Speckles would make his attempt from the rear! And around the end of the shed and in behind he raced.