“Is he at home at this hour?” asked the young dispatcher doubtfully. “I don’t know about saying anything to him regarding a private matter.” “I want him to know how you drove those fellows away,” she said. “Do come in. You know my father, don’t you?” “Slightly. We do not come in contact much,” Ralph said slowly. “You will like him, Mr. Fairbanks,” said the girl earnestly. “He is really a wonderful man. Wherever he has held a position the company has been glad of his services. He is marvelously efficient. And he is forever planning improvements and scheming out ways of saving money for the road. Oh, yes, they all admire him.” “The men, too?” Ralph asked shrewdly. “Oh! The laborers? I don’t know about that.” “Quite an important point, I assure you,” said Ralph grimly. “No matter how much money an official saves the road, if he doesn’t hold the confidence and liking of the general run of railroad workers, he is distinctly not a success.” “Oh! Do you believe that?” she cried. “I know it. Railroad workers are the most clannish men in the world. If they have worked long for a particular road they are as loyal to that road as though they owned it. And they resent any meddling with the usual routine of affairs. You have got to handle them with gloves. I fancy, Miss Cherry,” added Ralph somewhat grimly, “that your father has thrown away his gloves.” They just then came to the Hopkins house. It was one of the best houses in the section of Rockton in which Ralph and his mother lived. It was rather far from the railroad and the railroad tenements; so supervisor Hopkins’ employees were not likely to be seen often. “Come in—do,” urged Cherry, opening the gate. “There’s father at the library window.” The young dispatcher saw Barton Hopkins looking through the pane. He was a man with a very high forehead, colorless complexion, a high-arched nose upon which were set astride a pair of shell-rimmed eyeglasses, which masked pale blue eyes. One could warm up to a chunk of ice about as readily as one could to Mr. Barton Hopkins. And yet, Ralph was sure, there was not a thing the matter with the supervisor save that he was not human! He was a machine. His mental powers were not lubricated with either charity or an interest in the personal affairs of his fellow men. He stared without a semblance of emotion at Ralph Fairbanks as Cherry urged the latter into the library and introduced the young fellow. “Oh, yes. I know Mr. Fairbanks,” said Mr. Hopkins, and looked the visitor over as though he questioned if he might not in some way show Ralph how to be more efficient in his job. When Cherry explained volubly how she had been attacked by the rowdies at the railroad crossing and Ralph had come to her assistance, Mr. Hopkins rose and shook hands with the visitor again. But his second handshake was exactly like the first one. Ralph thought of grasping a dead fish!