McGuire saw that he was about to have a fight with a man whom he had known less than ten minutes. He made his feet firm on the coarse gravel and waited. Dick wiped his bleeding eye on his jumper sleeve and looked for an opening. McGuire put up his hands awkwardly. Dick smiled. Scrappy Jim saw the men manœuvring in the twilight and signalled a switch-engine back with a rush signal, whirling his lamp furiously until the pony had stopped in front of the switch-shanty. “Smatter?” demanded fighting John Jones, leaning from the cab. He did not like the signal. It seemed to him that it carried an unnecessary amount of “hurry up.” Without lifting his eyes to the cab, Jim stepped aboard, and, nodding down the yard, said, “Back up. Suicide’s touchin’ up the new guy.” Jones opened the throttle and the yard engine slid down the track and stopped short where the trouble was. Dick heard the engine and was glad. He liked an audience. He remembered how the yardmaster had “touched him up” in the first hour of his first day’s work for the company, and recalled with pride that the good showing he had made with Jim had won promotion. McGuire had expected that the yardmaster on the engine and the engineer would stop the fight, but he heard no word from them. Only three suns had set since this pugilistic pair had shut themselves up in a box car and settled their own little differences, and they now leaned side by side from the cab window and looked with much interest upon the argument that was about to take place. “Here they come,” said Dick, playfully, and he reached for McGuire’s face. “We ride everything here. Here comes a flat fur a starter,” and he spanked McGuire’s cheek with his open hand. “Here’s an empty box,” and he reached for the other side, but McGuire’s arm was on his time. “That’s right--stop ’em. Here’s a cripple for the rep track,” and he landed lightly on McGuire’s ribs. “Here’s a couple loaded,” and he put his right and left hard on McGuire’s chest. The blows angered the tenderfoot. Dick was leaping and dancing about the unfortunate stranger as a savage Sioux would leap about a scalped Pawnee. “We’ll put this express car in on the spur,” said Dick as he landed a stinging blow on the point of his opponent’s nose. That insult brought the blood, and instantly all the Irish in McGuire’s make-up came to the surface. He was desperate, but he knew he must keep cool. The foreman began to force the fighting. He talked less now, but fought more. McGuire contented himself with stopping the blows of his adversary, and so saved his wind, which he had observed was a tender point in this rare, light air. Dick was wearing himself out. His left eye was bleeding and the blood blinded him at times. McGuire would not wilfully take advantage of that, but the yardman kept him so busy and mixed cuts for him to such an extent, that he had to do something.