“You come to me to-morrow noon and I’ll know something,” said Ralph, rising and putting away the paper in his wallet. “And then, I think, we’d better get in touch with Mr. Adair.” “I’d like to have something to show him,” murmured Zeph. “Something good.” “You are more likely to have something bad to show him,” returned Ralph seriously. “I believe, Zeph, that this Andy McCarrey, with Jim Perrin to help him, could swing more than half of the shopmen in Rockton.” “It’s a queer proposition. How does it come this McCarrey butts in here? And him not a union man, nor even an employee of the Great Northern?” “I give it to you straight, Zeph,” sighed Ralph, buttoning his coat over the wallet. “I believe McCarrey followed the new supervisor here.” “What!” “No ‘what’ about it. Mr. Hopkins—the G. M. admitted it to me—got into trouble on an eastern railroad. This McCarrey had a run-in with Barton Hopkins there. As soon as Mr. Hopkins took hold here at Rockton as supervisor of the division, McCarrey appeared.” “And then the trouble started?” demanded Zeph. “You said it. It looks like a personal fight, more than anything else, between McCarrey and the super.” “But why do our men lend themselves so easily to the leadership of an outsider like McCarrey?” “He’s got their number, I guess,” grumbled Ralph. “He knows how Mr. Hopkins starts friction with the men. ‘Discipline!’ Humph!” “He’s a regular red flannel shirt, is he?” grumbled Zeph Dallas. “I heard he had everybody scratching. Has he jumped you yet, Ralph?” “Not much. And I don’t suppose he’ll try to. We get our orders from Mr. Glidden at main headquarters.” “Well,” remarked Zeph wisely, “I never saw one of these wiseacres who try to tell everybody their business, who didn’t butt in more or less on things that didn’t concern ’em. But, of course, Mr. Hopkins can talk turkey to the men in all other branches of the service on this division.” “He can and does. And he has got the men so sore that they are willing to be led by anybody who promises to help them get square with the super. McCarrey needs only to sit back and wait, and things will come his way.” “That club you had just now ought to have come his way,” sighed Zeph. “Going? Well, good-night, Ralph.” “Good-night. Better go to bed—if the mince pie and milk will let you sleep. And don’t fail to show up at the offices to-morrow noon.” Ralph went home in a very serious frame of mind. His mother was serious, too, the next morning, when she found the coat he had worn the evening before had a great rent in it and two buttons torn off. “I never knew it to fail, Ralph,” she said, rather sharply for her, “that when Zeph Dallas comes around you get into trouble. You have been in a fight. Look at that scratch on your cheek. What did you do last night?” “You are a wonderfully close observer, Mother,” said Ralph, laughing. “How is it you always see so much?”