Two pits away, Reddy MacQuigan, with a black scowl on his face, leaned against the steam chest of the 1004. Bradley, pretending not to see him, swung through the gangway and into the cab of the 582. There, for half an hour, he busied himself in an aimless fashion; but with an eye out for the young wiper, as the latter moved about the roundhouse. The whistle was blowing and Reddy was pulling off his overalls, as Bradley swung out of his cab again; and he was shading a match from the wind over the bowl of his pipe just across the turntable, as Reddy came out. He tossed away the match, puffed, and nodded at MacQuigan. "Hello, Reddy," he said in his quiet way, and fell into step with the boy. MacQuigan didn't answer. Bradley never spoke much, anyhow. They crossed the tracks and started up Main Street in silence. Here, the railroaders, in groups and twos and threes, filled the street; some hurrying homeward; others dropping in through the swinging doors, not infrequently located along the right of way, where gasoline lamps flared out over the gambling hells, and the crash of tin-pan pianos, mingled with laughter and shouting, came rolling out from the dance-hall entrances. Bradley, with his eyes in front of him, walked along silently. Upon MacQuigan's young face had settled the black scowl again; and it grew blacker as he glanced, now and then, at the man beside him. Behind them came a knot of his cronies--and some one called his name. MacQuigan halted suddenly. "Well, so long, Martin," he said gruffly. "I'll be up a little later." Bradley's hand went out and linked in the other's arm. "Better come on home, Reddy," he said, with one of his rare smiles. "Later," Reddy flung out. "Better make it now," said Bradley quietly. The group behind had come up with them now, and, crowding into Faro Dave's place, paused a moment in the entrance to absorb the situation. "Be a good boy, Reddy, and do as you're told," one of them sang out. Reddy whirled on Bradley, the hot blood flushing his face. "I wish you'd mind your own blasted business!" he flared. "I'm blamed good and sick of you tagging me. This isn't the first time. You make me weary! The trouble with you is that you don't know anything but the everlasting grouch you carry around. You're a funeral! You're a tight-wad. Everybody says so. Nobody ever heard of you spending a cent. Go on--beat it--leave me alone!" Bradley's face whitened a little, but the smile was still on his lips. "Better draw your fire, Reddy; there's no need of getting hot," he said. "Come on home; you know what'll happen if you don't; and you know what Regan told you back there in the roundhouse." "So you heard that, eh?" Reddy shot at him. "I thought you did; and you thought you'd fool me by hanging around there, playing innocent, to walk home with me, eh?" "I wasn't trying to fool you," Bradley answered; and his hand went now to the wiper's shoulder.