“I suppose you'll want to return the horse-blanket and whip. You can leave 'em here with me. I'll take 'em home to the old man,” remarked the boy, affably. “I wouldn't trust you with ten cents; you know mighty well I wouldn't,” retorted Jeffy. “Good reason why--you ain't never had that much.” Dan Oakley's step was heard approaching the door, and the wordy warfare ceased abruptly. Clarence got out of the way as quickly as possible, for he feared he might be asked to do something, and he had other plans for the morning. Jeffy was handed over to McClintock's tender mercies, who put him to work in the yards. It was pay-day in the car-shops, and Oakley posted a number of notices in conspicuous places about the works. They announced a ten-per-cent, reduction in the wages of the men, the cut to go into effect immediately. By-and-by McClintock came in from the yards. He was hot and perspiring, and his check shirt clung moistly to his powerful shoulders. As he crossed to the water-cooler, he said to Dan: “Well, we've lost him already. I guess he wasn't keen for work.” Oakley looked up inquiringly from the letter he was writing. “I mean Jeffy. He stuck to it for a couple of hours, and then Pete saw him making a sneak through the cornfield towards the crick. I haven't told your father yet.” Dan laughed. “I thought it would be that way. Have you seen the notices?” “Yes,” nodding. “Heard anything from the men yet?” “Not a word.” McClintock returned to the yards. It was the noon hour, and in the shade of one of the sheds he found a number of the hands at lunch, who lived too far from the shops to go home to dinner. “Say, Milt,” said one of these, “have you tumbled to the notices?--ten per cent, all round. You'll be having to go down in your sock for coin.” “It's there all right,” cheerfully. “I knew when Cornish came down here there would be something drop shortly. I ain't never known it to fail. The old skinflint! I'll bet he ain't losing any money.” “You bet he ain't, not he,” said a second, with a short laugh. The first man, Branyon by name, bit carefully into the wedge-shaped piece of pie he was holding in his hand. “If I was as rich as Cornish I'm damned if I'd be such an infernal stiff! What the hell good is his money doing him, anyhow?” “What does the boss say, Milt?” “That wages will go back as soon as he can put them back.” “Yes, they will! Like fun!” said Branyon, sarcastically. “You're a lot of kickers, you are,” commented McClintock, good-naturedly. “You don't believe for one minute, do you, that the Huckleberry or the shops ever earned a dollar?” “You can gamble on it that they ain't ever cost Cornish a red cent,” said Branyon, as positively as a mouthful of pie would allow. “I wouldn't be too sure about that,” said the master-mechanic, walking on. “I bet he ain't out none on this,” remarked Branyon, cynically. “If he was he wouldn't take it so blamed easy.”