“You are right we do. Here is this list. I have written beside Perrin’s writing the full names of the four men and what they do in the shops and how they stand in the union. They will have to be watched from now on. Well, it is nothing in my young life. I am going to tend to my knitting and keep out of any trouble, that’s all.” Zeph fairly giggled. “I hear you,” he said. “But you won’t be able to sit up in this conning tower of yours and calmly watch a ruction down below without getting into it, and getting in with both feet.” “No, no! Nothing like that,” declared Ralph, smiling and shaking his head as his friend departed. The young train dispatcher really meant what he said. He hated to see things going wrong for the division—for the whole Great Northern system, in fact. But he had his job, and his place in the railroad system, and he did not mean to step aside. He considered himself quite invulnerable where he sat. He was independent of everybody save his good friend, Glidden, at main headquarters. As long as he managed to drive through his schedules with some kind of regularity, Ralph felt that nobody could actually hurt him with the company. But not long after luncheon one of the callboys came to the door of his little private office and said: “Mist’ Hopkins wants you, Mist’ Fairbanks. Just told me. Right now.” “Wants me?” queried Ralph, in more surprise than apprehension. “The super?” “Yep. Bet you he’s got some new way for you to run the trains. Two on the same track, mebbe, to save wear on the iron,” and the saucy youngster went away, chuckling. That is the way the entire force was considering the supervisor. Not even the callboys had proper respect for the bothersome official. Ralph hesitated a little before responding to the request of Mr. Hopkins. Hopkins had absolutely no authority over the train dispatcher’s department. In fact, the divisional officers took orders, to a degree, from the train dispatchers. For that department “lapped over” onto the main and other divisions of the Great Northern. Ralph had to handle trains to and from the other divisions of the system. So he hesitated about answering the call to Mr. Hopkins’ office. Any other man in Hopkins’ place would have come to Ralph’s room and said his little say, whatever it was. The day when a supervisor could call a train dispatcher to account was long since past in railroading. Ralph looked over what was being done in his outer office before descending the flight to the supervisor’s room. It was at the busiest time of the day and the young chief dispatcher kept his eye constantly on what was going on during every afternoon. He had his best men on duty at night. Hopkins was drumming impatiently on his desk with a pencil when Ralph entered. The latter secretly wished to tell him that that drumming was “waste energy.” But the supervisor’s face did not encourage any expression of humor. “I have been waiting for you, Mr. Fairbanks,” he said sharply.