It began the day after he got his raise. It was an indefinite, elusive, negative sort of a change, not the kind you could lay your hand on and describe in so many words. Regan tried to, and gave it up. The nearest he came to anything concrete was one day when he came around the tail-end of a tender and, unexpectedly, upon Spitzer. Spitzer was sweeping as usual, but Spitzer was also whistling--which was not usual. Regan, it is true, couldn’t puzzle very much out of that, but then Regan had his limitations. Mindful of Carleton’s words, Regan kept his eye in a mildly curious kind of a way on the little faded, blueeyed drudge, and as he noticed the first change without being able to define it, he now, after a week or so, noticed a second, with the difference that this time the diagnosis was painfully obvious--Spitzer’s return to Spitzer’s normal self. Spitzer stopped whistling. Regan began to catch Spitzer’s eyes fixed on him with a hesitating, irresolute, anxious gaze about every time he entered the roundhouse. And though he didn’t quite grasp it, something of the truth came to him. Spitzer was screwing up his courage to the sticking point preparatory to another step onward in his belated march toward emancipation. It was a month to the day from the first interview when Spitzer tackled the master mechanic again, and as before, out by the turntable in front of the roundhouse, and, if anything, in a manner even more nervous and ill at ease than on the former occasion. He stammered once or twice in an effort to begin--and his effort was utter failure. Regan eyed him in profound distrust. Once in four years wasn’t so much, and after all, even Spitzer, now that the shock was over, might be expected to do that. But again in a month--and from Spitzer! Something was wrong--perhaps Carleton was right. “Well,” he snapped, “you got your raise. Ain’t you satisfied?” Spitzer nodded dumbly. “Well, then, what’s the matter with you if you’re satisfied?” exploded the master mechanic. “I want to get------” the last word trailed off into tremulous, quavering incoherency. “You want to get what?” growled Regan. “Don’t sputter as though you’d swallowed your teeth. What is it you want to get?” “Firing,” blurted Spitzer after a desperate struggle. Regan gasped for his breath. Spitzer! SPITZER--in a cab! He couldn’t have heard straight. “Say it again,” whispered the master mechanic. “Firing,” repeated Spitzer, with more confidence now that the plunge was taken. “Yes,” said Regan weakly to himself. “That’s it. I got it right--firing! He wants to get _firing!_” “I--I can do it,” faltered Spitzer. “I got to.” “Eh? What’s that?” said Regan. “You got to? Say, you, Spitzer, what the devil’s the matter with you anyway?” Spitzer wriggled like a worm on a hook, and his face went the color of a semaphore arm--a deep red one. Spitzer was suffering acutely. “Well, well,” prodded Regan. “Release the air! Take the brakes off!”