"I'll tell you when you're sober," said the Kid curtly. "Get up to your bunk and sleep it off." "S'my trick," said McGrew heavily, waving his hand toward the key. "Can't let nusher fellow do my work." "Your trick!" The words came in a withering, bitter rush from the Kid. "Your trick! You're in fine shape to hold down a key, aren't you!" "Whash reason I ain't? Held it down all right, so far," said McGrew, a world of injury in his voice--and it was true; so far he had held it down all right that night, for the very simple reason that Angel Forks had not been the elected meeting point of trains for a matter of some three hours, not since the time when Harvey and Lansing had dropped in and McGrew had been sober. "Get up to your bunk!" said the Kid between his teeth--and that was all. McGrew swayed hesitantly for a moment on uncertain legs, blinked soddenly a sort of helpless protest, and, turning, staggered up the stairs. For a little while the Kid sat in his chair, trying to conquer his dizzy, swimming head; and then the warm blood trickling down his neck--he had not noticed it before--roused him to action. He took the lamp and went into the other room, bathed his head in the wash-basin, sopping at the back of his neck to stop the flow, and finally bandaged it as best he could with a wet cloth as a compress, and a towel drawn tightly over it, which he knotted on his forehead. He finished McGrew's abortive attempt at housecleaning after that, and sat in to hold down the rest of the night trick, while McGrew in sleep should recover his senses. But McGrew did not sleep. McGrew was fairly started--and McGrew had two bottles at command. At five-thirty in the morning, No. 81, the local freight, west, making a meeting point, rattled her long string of flats and boxes on the Angel Forks siding; and the Kid, unknotting his bandage, dropped it into a drawer of his desk. Brannahan, No. 81's conductor, kicked the door open, and came in for his orders. "Hello, Kid!" exclaimed Brannahan. "What you sitting in for? Where's your mate?" "Asleep," the Kid laughed at him. "Where do you suppose he is! We're swopping tricks for a while for the sake of variety." Brannahan stooped and lunged the stub of the cigar in his mouth over the lamp chimney, and with the up-draft nearly extinguished the flame; then he pulled up a chair, tilted back and stuck his feet up on the desk. "Guess most anything would be variety in this God-forsaken hole," he observed between puffs. "What?" "Oh, it's not so bad--when you get used to it," said the Kid. He edged his own chair around to face Brannahan squarely--the wound in the back of his head was bleeding again; perhaps it had never stopped bleeding, he did not know.