“And I’ll be responsible for Tommy McGuire,” said the agent, looking at the father of the freckled youth. “He’s a tough kid that,” said the roadmaster, “wud all jew respect to his mother.” “Leave him to me,” said the station-master, “he’s no whit tougher than I was at his age.” When Tincher, the agent’s under-study, went out to look for Tommy, to apprise him of what he had overheard, the boy was not to be seen. Of course he could not be expected to sit quietly in the sun for nearly an hour, and he had not. He had climbed to the top of the grain elevator, he had mixed salt with U. P. Burns’s tobacco, and pinned a “lost” notice to his father’s coat that hung on the handle-bar of the hand car. Then he had scattered shelled corn for the miller’s pigs. He had discovered the agent’s marking pot, and was now lying flat on his stomach, reaching over the edge of the platform, making zebras of all the white pigs in the drove. * * * * * The widow laughed and cried when Tommy told her how it had all been arranged, and Tommy’s mother, to his surprise, actually kissed him. Even Denis McGuire was able to feel a pardonable pride in the boy. Mrs. Dutton said she was glad to “see th’ brat thryen to make suthen uv hissilf.” The priest promised to pray for him. “I’ll stand good for him here, father,” the agent had said to the priest, “if you’ll stand good hereafter,” and the priest had promised. The first day was all too short for Tommy, though sad enough for Jack. By three o’clock in the afternoon the tank was full and the mule turned out to graze. Mr. Collins, the foreman of the bridge carpenters, had built a bunk in the little shanty, and Mrs. McGuire and the widow had come down to fix the bed for Tommy. The enthusiastic boy gave Jack little time to hug his grief, but kept talking of the future, of their importance to the company and to Jack’s family. His plans were not quite perfect in his own mind, but he felt that in some way he must contribute to the support of the widow’s family. He had no need of money for himself. He had never had any or cared to have, unless it would be to buy a target rifle like Anderson’s boy had, or maybe some firecrackers for the Fourth, and for Christmas. But poor little Jack would not enthuse. As often as Tommy looked up he found his companion staring at him as if half afraid. “Whatcher skeered about, Jack Connor?” demanded Tommy, boxing the boy’s cap off. “When ye goin’ to bed?” asked Jack, his wild eyes growing wider as he pictured to himself the loneliness of the place when Tommy should go to sleep. “Aw, shucks,” said Tommy, “I’m not goin’ t’ bed at all; come outside an’ le’s build a bonfire to keep th’ skeeters off.”