But he knew it was useless to argue the matter. The men were red hot. They were discarding the advice and the orders of their own union officials. Andy McCarrey was about to see his cherished plans come to fruition. CHAPTER XI MORE FRICTION Ralph Fairbanks disliked to do it. But it seemed that he was the first responsible person about the railroad building to mark the beginning of the wildcat strike of the shopmen. Somebody had to tell Barton Hopkins, and it seemed the duty devolved upon him. “The old man will be mighty sore,” said Johnny, the operator. “I’d better shoot the news to main headquarters, hadn’t I?” “Yes,” replied Ralph, going into the telephone booth. He asked the operator for Mr. Hopkins’ house number. It was not very late in the evening and he knew Mr. Hopkins could not have gone to bed. But it was several minutes during which he heard the indicator buzzing again and again, before he received any answer. Then it was not the supervisor’s sharp voice that said: “Mr. Hopkins’ residence. What is wanted?” “Oh, my gracious, Miss Cherry! Is that you?” asked the young train dispatcher, anxiously. “Ralph Fairbanks! What has happened?” In spite of his excitement Ralph noted—and was glad!—that the girl recognized his voice so quickly. “I am at headquarters, Miss Cherry! Something has happened that your father should know about.” “He has gone out. We expect him back any moment. Tell me what it is, Mr. Fairbanks!” “The men have struck!” “What—what made them?” “Oh, it was coming. It could not be helped,” Ralph hastily assured her. “I don’t know how far it will spread. Tell your father as soon as you see him, will you, please? I will stay here till he comes. Don’t know: Maybe the yardmen will go out. If they do——” He hung up without finishing his sentence. Through the glass door of the cabinet he had seen one of the call boys rush into the outer office. “Hey! Where’s Fairbanks?” the boy demanded. “Hey, Mist’ Fairbanks! Dooley wants you down the yard.” “Dooley? At the switch shanty? What for?” “The feller driving the kettle has flew the coop!” answered the excited boy. “They are all striking!” “Not one of the engineers?” gasped Ralph. “Aw, that feller’s a new one. He wasn’t long on the job. Been talking strike ever since he started to work here,” explained the call boy, keeping alongside of Ralph as the latter started down the wide stairs. “He is a no-good, take it from me. Dooley’s near ’bout crazy. He started to chase the feller back on the kettle with a switchbar, but the man could run too fast. Somebody’s got to take the throttle on that kettle or there won’t be no more switchin’ done in this yard to-night.” “Why haven’t you been sent for a substitute?” the train dispatcher asked the voluble youth.