Beyond the tracks and a narrow field, where the young corn stood in fresh green rows, was a line of stately sycamores and vivid willows that bordered Billup's Fork. Tradition had it that an early settler by the name of Billup had been drowned there--a feat that must have required considerable ingenuity on his part, as the stream was nothing but a series of shallow riffles, with an occasional deep hole. Once Jeffy, generously drunk, had attempted to end his life in the fork. He had waded in above his shoe-tops, only to decide that the water was too cold, and had waded out again, to the keen disappointment of six small boys on the bank, who would have been grateful for any little excitement. He said he wanted to live to invent a drink that tasted as good coming up as it did going down; there was all kinds of money in such a drink. But the boys felt they had been swindled, and threw stones at him. It is sometimes difficult to satisfy an audience. Nearer at hand, but invisible, Clarence was practising an elusive dance-step in an empty coal-car. He was inspired by a lofty ambition to equal--he dared not hope to excel--a gentleman he had seen at a recent minstrel performance. McClintock, passing, had inquired sarcastically if it was his busy day, but Clarence had ignored the question. He felt that he had nothing in common with one who possessed such a slavish respect for mere industry. Presently McClintock wandered in from the hot out-of-doors to talk over certain repairs he wished undertaken in the shops. He was a typical American mechanic, and Oakley liked him, as he always liked the man who knew his business and earned his pay. They discussed the repairs, and then Oakley asked, “How's my father getting along, Milt?” “Oh, all right. He's a little slow, that's all.” “What's he on now?” “Those blue-line cars that came in last month.” “There isn't much in that batch. I had to figure close to get the work. Keep the men moving.” “They are about done. I'll put the painters on the job to-morrow.” “That's good.” McClintock went over to the water-cooler in the corner and filled a stemless tumbler with ice-water. “We'll be ready to send them up to Buckhorn the last of next week. Is there anything else in sight?” He gulped down the water at a single swallow. “No, not at present, but there are one or two pretty fair orders coming in next month that I was lucky enough to pick up in Chicago. Isn't there any work of our own we can go at while things are slack?” “Lots of it,” wiping his hands on the legs of his greasy overalls. “All our day coaches need paint, and some want new upholstery.” “We'd better go at that, then.” “All right. I'll take a look at the cars in the yards, and see what I can put out in place of those we call in. There's no use talking, Mr. Oakley, you've done big things for the shops,” he added. “Well, I am getting some work for them, and while there isn't much profit in it, perhaps, it's a great deal better than being idle.”