Let us translate this more definitely and more intimately, and come to the exact testimony of a Great Northern fireman operating out of Havre up in northern Montana. He speaks, under the promise of no revelation whatever as to his identity, with great frankness. It is not easy for a railroader to speak frankly, particularly to a stranger. It is not encouraged in railroad circles, to put it frankly. But this man--he is a keen, upstanding American of the best type--speaks to you through me with absolute frankness. He begins with one or two observations as to the rank and file of railroaders in general to-day. "When I started in this game," he says, "the men I worked with were mostly single and had neither dependents nor home ties. Their conversation consisted mainly in stories of the road, whose location wanders from Portland, Maine, to Seattle or to Winnipeg--'the Peg'--to Pocatello, to New Orleans, or to San Francisco. Conductors in charge of a train were very rarely men who had been 'made' upon that road; seniority did not mean much; men went from job to job as their fancy dictated. They tell a story up this country about a conductor and an engineer that will illustrate my point. "You will begin by understanding that the rules of this road, as well as of all the others, provide for a standard watch--a watch that has been passed upon by a qualified and registered watch-inspector. There is also a rule that the conductor compare time with the engineer before starting out upon any trip. In each division-office there is a 'watch register,' and every watch must be compared with the 'standard clock' and any difference between them noted upon the register. The rule states specifically that no watch can be called correct that is even thirty seconds away from the 'standard clock.' Now then. "This freight conductor over in the eastern end of the State came to the engineer with his orders and handed them up into the cab. After the engineman had finished reading them, the conductor asked: 'What time have you got?' The engineer grinned and replied: 'What time have _you_ got?' This time the conductor grinned. He reached down into his overcoat pocket and pulled out one of the small tin watches that are advertised across the land as having made the dollar famous. 'Seven forty-five,' said he, with great gravity. His friend, the engineer, also assumed solemnity, then pulled a nickel-plated alarm-clock out from under his seat. 'You're right, Tim,' said he, 'right to the minute.'