Flannagan slept it off, and it took about eighteen hours to do it. When he came to himself he was in a humor that, far from being happy, was atrocious; likewise, there were bodily ailments--Flannagan's head was bad, and felt as though a gang of boiler-makers, working against time, were driving rivets in it. He procured himself a bracer and went back to bed. This resulted in a decidedly improved physical condition, but when he arose late in the afternoon any improvement there might have been in his mental state was speedily dissipated--Flannagan found a letter shoved under his door, postmarked the day before, and with it an official manila envelope from the super's office. He opened the letter and read it--read it again while his jaws worked and the red surged in a passion into his face; then, with an oath, he tore it savagely into shreds, flung the bits on the floor and stamped upon them viciously with his heavy nail-heeled boot. The official manila he did not open at all. A guess was enough for that--a curt request to present himself in the super's office, probably. Flannagan glared at it, then grabbed his hat, and started down for the station. There was no idea of shirking it; Flannagan wasn't that kind at any time, and just now his mood, if anything, spurred him on rather than held him back. Flannagan welcomed the prospect of a row about anything with anybody at that moment--if only a war of words. Carleton's office was upstairs over the ticket office and next to the despatchers' room then, for the station did duty for headquarters and everything else--not now, it's changed now, and there's a rather imposing gray-stone structure where the old wooden shack used to be; but, no matter, that's the way it was then, for those were the early days when the road was young and in the making. Flannagan reached the station, climbed the stairs, and pushed Carleton's door open with little ceremony. "You want to see me?" he demanded gruffly, as he stepped inside. Carleton, sitting at his desk, looked up and eyed the wrecking boss coolly for a minute. "No, Flannagan," he said curtly. "I don't." "Then what in blazes d'ye send for me for?" Flannagan flung out in a growl. "See here, Flannagan," snapped Carleton, "I've no time to talk to you. You can read, can't you? You're out!" Flannagan blinked. "Was that what was in the letter?" "It was--just that," said Carleton grimly. "Hell!" Flannagan's short laugh held a jeering note of contempt. "I didn't open it--or mabbe I'd have known, eh?" Carleton's eyes narrowed. "Well, you know now, don't you?" "Sure!" Flannagan scowled and licked his lips. "I'm out, thrown out, and----" "Then, get out!" Carleton cut in sharply. "You've had more chances than any man ever got before from me, thanks to Regan; but you've had your last, and talking won't do you any good now." Flannagan stepped nearer to the desk.