The clerks in the freight offices had some kind of association with McCarrey’s new union, and when Ralph had occasion to go down the platform he saw these clerks buzzing like mad bees. “If the super comes this way these fellows will get something in their ears they won’t want to hear,” Ralph remarked to one of the platform men. “How do you stand, Mandell?” “I stand for my bread and butter. I’ve always got my wages regularly and been treated decently by the road; at least, until this Hopkins came. I’ve been here fifteen years and have seen five or six supers come and go. I may be here fifteen more and see as many supers in charge. If this Hopkins tells me I can’t spit on the platform, well, then, I’ll go spit over the side. Ha! Them shopmen last night boiling out of the shop because of a simple order like that! They’re a bunch of dumb-bells.” All the employees did not feel the same way, however; and that Ralph right well knew. He believed it would not take much more to cause the yard workers, the switchmen, the freight clerks, and other employees, to desert their jobs. He had very little time to give thought to this or other general matters. That wreck in the yard the night before had balled the service up badly. The Midnight Flyer had got out ten minutes late and Byron Marks had been unable to make up even that small handicap in the four hours’ run to Hammerfest. There was a protest from the general manager about this. It did not touch Ralph’s department, of course; but it was sent to him in duplicate. He knew that the supervisor would be red hot. When Marks brought his train back that day he had managed to make time. Ralph himself had kept the tracks clear for him, and the old fellow should have been thankful. But Mr. Hopkins met the express on the platform as it steamed to a stop. In that cold voice of his, and with a careful selection of words that bit like acid on a man’s soul, the supervisor reprimanded the old engineer before his crew and all the idlers who had gathered around. It was an unkind thing to do; and yet, there was good reason for the supervisor’s anger. Ralph stood by and listened. The locomotive that drew the flyer and this return train was practically new. It was the latest thing in a coal-burning, Class-A locomotive. Marks had every chance, it would seem, to make the schedule, close as it was. Another driver could have done it, Ralph was sure. The old engineer swung down from the cab and allowed one of his firemen to take the machine out to the roundhouse. He had his lunch-can and coat with him. He stood like a whipped dog and took the tongue-lashing the supervisor gave to him. Ralph had to go away from there. He could not listen to it. Byron Marks did not possess a proper sense of his own position.