“What is Mr. Fairbanks doing on that switch engine?” asked the supervisor. “I understand that he was at fault in this accident. He kicked the pig-iron cars too far over the switch.” “Look here, Mr. Hopkins!” exclaimed Ralph, leaning from the window of the little cabin in sudden heat. “Who told you any such thing as that?” “I am so informed. My informant will doubtless appear at the proper time—when the case is thrashed out in my office.” “I’ll have some testimony to bring in, too, at that,” said Ralph hotly. “Only I doubt right here and now, Mr. Hopkins, your power to take me into your office. I am train dispatcher of this division——” “Stick to your job, then,” put in Mr. Hopkins sharply. “I ask you: What are you doing on that switch engine?” Ralph came down from the deck on the run. He tore off the overalls. His face blazed. He had to wait a moment to control his voice he was so angry. “If you think I have stepped in here where I have no business, believe me, I can get out,” he said. “I had no idea of turning in a time card for what I was doing. I helped out because I wanted to see things move. Dooley——” “Mr. Dooley much overstepped his authority when he allowed you to drive that switcher. He knew it—and knows it, now.” “What in thunder would I have done, Mr. Hopkins?” broke in the excited yardmaster. “Not a man on the list could I call——” “It was a matter to put up to your superior.” “Well, now!” roared the angry old man, “where was _you_ when I needed to start things going after that danged striker hopped his job? Should I sit down and let the yard go stale and all this freight hang fire while I waited to consult you, Mr. Hopkins?” “That is exactly what you should have done,” declared the supervisor in the same decisive way. “Great Grief and Jumping Dromedaries!” yelled Dooley, and he literally went up into the air. “It is no wonder the men are striking. I don’t blame ’em! I am on strike myself from this moment——” He threw the clip of papers into the air, and it went hurtling over the nearest line of boxcars. His cap he snatched from his head and flung it yards away in the other direction. The man was for the moment mad! “I’m on strike! I’m on strike meself!” he bawled. “Me, that’s never gone out with the boys no matter what happened, for the last thutty years. I’m on strike!” “You are mistaken, Dooley,” cut in the icy voice of the supervisor. “You have not struck. You are discharged. Hand in your time and go. You are discharged for insubordination and inefficiency. I’ll take your keys.” * * * * *