"Not in a cab!" interposed Regan hastily. "Not if he was the president of the road. But I'll see, Mrs. MacQuigan, I'll see." And Regan saw--Thornley, the trainmaster. And after Thornley, he saw Reddy MacQuigan in the roundhouse. "Reddy," said he, with a growl that wasn't real, "there's a vacancy in the engine crews--h'm?" "Martin's?" said Reddy quickly. "Yes," said Regan. "Do you want it?" "No," said Reddy MacQuigan shortly. "Good boy," said the fat little master mechanic. "Then I'll give it to you just the same. Martin's through in here; but he'll get a chance braking for Thornley. You'll run spare to begin with, and"--as Reddy stared a little numbly--"don't break your neck thanking me. Thank yourself for turning into a man. Your mother's a fine woman, Reddy. I guess you're beginning to find that out too--h'm?" So Reddy MacQuigan went to firing where Martin Bradley had fired before, and his pay went up; and Bradley--no, don't get that idea--whatever else he may have done, Martin Bradley didn't make a beast of himself. Bradley took the job they offered him, neither gratefully nor ungratefully, took it with that spirit of utter indifference for anything and everything that seemed to have laid hold of him and got him in its grip--and off duty he spent most of his time in the emporiums along Main Street. He drank some, but never enough to snow him under; it was excitement that he seemed to crave, forgetfulness in anything that would absorb him for the moment. It was not drink so much; it was the faro tables and the roulette and the stud poker that, crooked from the drop of the hat, claimed him and cleaned him out night after night--all except Mrs. MacQuigan's board money, that they never got away from, him. Mrs. MacQuigan got that as regularly now that she didn't need it with Reddy to look after her as she had when she was practically dependent upon Bradley for it all. Silent, grim, taciturn always, more so now than ever, Bradley went his way; indifferent to Regan when Regan buttonholed him; indifferent to Thornley and his threats of dismissal, meant to jerk Bradley into the straight; indifferent to every mortal thing on earth. And the Hill Division, with Regan leading, shook its head. There wasn't a man but knew the story, and, big under the greasy jumpers and the oil-soaked shirts, they never judged him; but Bradley's eyes held no invitation for companionship, so they left him pretty much alone. "I dunno," said Regan, tugging at his mustache, twiddling with his thumbs over his paunch, "I dunno--looks like the scrap heap at the end of the run--h'm? I dunno." But Mrs. MacQuigan said no. "Wait," said she, with her patient smile. "It's me that knows Martin. It's a sore, hurt heart the boy has now; but you wait and see--I'll win him through. It's proud yet you'll be to take your hats off to Martin Bradley!"