The two policemen looked about them calmly. “’Tis cold, all right, this morning,” said the one on the left, who possessed a rich brogue. “I had enough of it yesterday,” said the other. “I wouldn’t want a steady job of this.” “Nor I.” Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his orders. “Keep a steady gait,” the foreman had said. “Don’t stop for any one who doesn’t look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don’t stop for a crowd.” The two officers kept silent for a few moments. “The last man must have gone through all right,” said the officer on the left. “I don’t see his car anywhere.” “Who’s on there?” asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its complement of policemen. “Schaeffer and Ryan.” There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along. There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not see many people either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to him. If he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough. He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making some apologetic remarks, but he refrained. “You want to look out for them things,” said the officer on the left, condescendingly. “That’s right,” agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly. “There’s lots of them on this line,” said the officer on the right. Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two pedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting. “Scab!” he yelled. “Scab!” Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. He knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably. At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the car to stop. “Never mind him,” said one of the officers. “He’s up to some game.” Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his fist. “Ah, you bloody coward!” he yelled. Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car. Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been. Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track. “They’ve been at work, here, all right,” said one of the policemen. “We’ll have an argument, maybe,” said the other. Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathisers.