Coogan grew neither better nor worse. The months passed, and he grew neither better nor worse. Winter came, and, with the trestle that went out in the big storm that year, Coogan went into Division for the last time, went over the Great Divide, the same simple, broken-minded Coogan that had begun his self-appointed task in the spring--he may have done some good, or he may not. They found him after two or three days, and sent him back to Big Cloud. “He’d have chosen that himself if he could have chosen,” said Carleton soberly. “God knows what the end would have been. The years would have been all alike, he’d never have got his mind back. It’s all for the best, what?” Regan did not answer. Philosophy and the master mechanic’s heart did not always measure things alike. The Brotherhood took charge of the arrangements, and Coogan’s funeral was the biggest funeral Big Cloud ever had. Everybody wanted to march, so they held the service late in the afternoon and closed down the shops at half-past four: and the shop hands, from the boss fitter to the water boy, turned out to the last man--and so did every one else in town. It was getting dark and already supper time when it was over, but Carleton, who had left some unfinished work on his desk, went back to his office instead of going home. He lighted the lamp, put on the chimney, but the match was still burning between his fingers when the door opened and a man, with his hat pulled far down over his face, stepped in and closed it behind him. Carleton whirled around, the match dropped to the floor, and he leaned forward over his desk, a hard look settling on his face. The man had pushed back his hat. It was Dahleen, Coogan’s fireman, Jim Dahleen. For a moment neither man spoke. Bitter words rose to Carleton’s tongue, but something in the other’s face checked and held them back. It was Dahleen who spoke first. “I heard about Chick--that he’d gone out,” he said quietly. “I don’t suppose it did him any good, but I kind of had to chip in on the good-by--Chick and me used to be pretty thick. I saw you come down here and I followed you. Don’t stare at me like that, you’d have done the same. Have you got that flask yet?” “Yes,” Carleton answered mechanically, and as mechanically produced it from the drawer of his desk. “Ever examine it particularly?” “Examine it?” “I guess that answers my question. I was afraid you might, and I wanted to ask you for it that day, only I thought you’d think it mighty funny, refuse, and well--well, get to looking it over on your own hook. Will you give it here for a minute?” Carleton handed it over silently. Dahleen took it, pulled off the lower half that served as drinking cup, laid his finger on the inside rim, and returned it to the super.