He said his name was Walton--P. Walton. He was tall, hollow-cheeked, with skin of an unhealthy, colorless white, and black eyes under thin, black brows that were unnaturally bright. He dropped off at Big Cloud one afternoon--in the early days--from No. 1, the Limited from the East, climbed upstairs in the station to the super's room, and coughed out a request to Carleton for a job. Carleton, "Royal" Carleton, the squarest man that ever held down a divisional swivel chair, looked P. Walton over for a moment before he spoke. P. Walton didn't size up much like a day's work anyway you looked at him. "What can you do?" inquired Carleton. "Anything," said P. Walton--and coughed. Carleton reached for his pipe and struck a match. "If you could," said he, sucking at the amber mouthpiece between words, "there wouldn't be any trouble about it. For instance, the construction gangs want men to----" "I'll go--I'll do anything," cut in P. Walton eagerly. "Just give me a chance." "Nope!" said Carleton with a grin. "I'm not hankering to break the Sixth Commandment--know what that is?" P. Walton licked dry lips with the tip of his tongue. "Murder," said he. "But you might as well let it come that way as any other. I'm pretty bad here"--he jerked his thumb toward his lungs--"and I'm broke here"--he turned an empty trouser's pocket inside out. "H'm!" observed Carleton reflectively. There was something in the other that touched his sympathy, and something apart from that that appealed to him--a sort of grim, philosophical grit in the man with the infected lungs. "I came out," said P. Walton, looking through the window, and kind of talking to himself, "because I thought it would be healthier for me out here than back East." "I dare say," said Carleton kindly; "but not if you start in by swinging a pick. Maybe we can find something else for you to do. Ever done any railroading?" Walton shook his head. "No," he answered. "I've always worked on books. I'm called pretty good at figures, if you've got anything in that line." "Clerk, eh? Well, I don't know," said Carleton slowly. "I guess, perhaps, we can give you a chance. My own clerk's doing double shift just at present; you might help him out temporarily. And if you're what you say you are, we'll find something better for you before the summer's over. Thirty dollars a month--it's not much of a stake--what do you say?" "It's a pretty big stake for me," said P. Walton, and his face lighted up as he turned it upon Carleton. "All right," said Carleton. "You'd better spend the rest of the afternoon then in hunting up some place to stay. And here"--he dug into his pocket and handed P. Walton two five-dollar gold pieces--"this may come in handy till you're on your feet." "Say," said P. Walton huskily, "I----" he stopped suddenly, as the door opened and Regan, the master mechanic, came in.