The freight yard at Sherman extended nearly a mile, beginning with the siding by the depot and expanding farther on to the width of a dozen tracks. Carhart came to a halt at the point where the tangle of switches began, and looked about him. Everywhere he saw cars, some laden, some empty. A fussy little engine was coughing down the track, whistling angrily at a sow and her litter of spotted, muddy-yellow pigs which had been sleeping in a row between the rails. From the roundhouse, off to the left, arose the smoke of five or six resting locomotives. Nearer at hand, seated in a row on the handle of the turn-table, were as many black negroes, laughing and showing their teeth and eyeballs, and discussing with much gesticulation and some amiable heat the question of the day. Carhart’s sweeping glance took in the scene, then his interest centred on the cars. Peet fidgeted. “There ain’t any of your cars here, Mr. Carhart,” he said uneasily. Already Carhart knew better, but he was not here to squabble with Peet. “How many have you here all together?” he asked; and after a moment of rapid counting he answered his own question: “Something more than a hundred, eh?” “Yes, but--” “Well, what?” “Look here, Carhart, I don’t know what you’ve got in mind, but I can’t let you have any of these cars.” “You can’t?” “Not possibly. Half of ’em are foreign as it is. I’m so short now I don’t know what I’m going to do. Honest, I don’t.” Carhart turned this answer over in his mind. After a moment he looked up, first at Peet, then at Tiffany, as if he had something to say; but whatever it may have been, he turned away without saying it. “What is it, old man?” cried Tiffany, at last. “What can we do for you, anyway?” Still Carhart did not speak. His eyes again sought the long lines of cars. Finally, resting one foot on a projecting cross-tie, he turned to the superintendent. “Suppose you do this, Peet,” he said, speaking slowly; “suppose you tell your yard-master that I am to be absolute boss here until midnight. Then you go home and leave me here. Tiffany could stay and help me out--this isn’t his department.” This brought Peet close to the outer limit of bewilderment. “What in--” he began; but Carhart, observing the effect of his request, interrupted. “I don’t believe Mr. Peet understands the situation very well, Tiffany. Tell him where we stand--where Mr. De Reamer stands.” And with this he walked off a little way.