“The G. M. told me to read it to you and see that you understood it.” There was a mischievous twinkle in the boy’s eye, and gore in the eye of the T. M. The operators, bending over their keys, glanced at each other, but there were no comments. There is very little talking in the office where the despatchers work. “Here, boy,” said the Trainmaster, handing a piece of clip to the messenger. “Take that to the yardmaster.” This order read: “Hook the ‘Maid of Erin’ on the White Mail to-night.” “Who gave you this message?” demanded the yardmaster. The boy was ready to explode with fun. “The T. M.” “Well, you go back, sonny, and ask him if he’s off his nut, see?” The boy reached for the paper, but the man held it back. “Go and ask Mr. Gilroy to explain this to you,” said the yardmaster. “Ask him if he means the White Mail or the Night Express.” Presently the boy came back, and, hooking his white light on his arm as he had seen passenger conductors do, he stood in the centre of the yardmaster’s office, and, having first arrested the attention of the switchmen, engineers, and firemen who were “railroading” there, read aloud: “To the yardmaster, St. Louis, Vandalia, Terre Haute, and Indianapolis Railroad, Indianapolis:-- Hook the ‘Maid of Erin’ on the White Mail to-night. T. M.” “Damn your skin, kid, who told you to read that?” “The T. M. Told me to read it to you and see that you understood it, see?” The engine had just been coupled to the White Mail, that had come in carrying green signals, when the special, running as second section of No. 1, whistled in. The President of the Vandalia boarded the “Maid of Erin,” introduced the General Manager, and they were in turn introduced to Mrs. McGuire. By this time a yard engine had dashed up out of a siding, picked up the car, and set her gently on behind the White Mail. “What time shall we reach the river?” asked the President of the Inter-Mountain. “At 7.50,” said the President of the Vandalia. “Possibly 7.49, but it will not be 51, Tommy, you can bet on that.” “To-morrow night,” said McGuire, surprised but smiling. “How pokey you are!” “To-morrow morning, if you please.” “What, you’re not running us special? Now I don’t want you to do that.” “No, you are going on a regular train,” said the Van man. “Then,” said McGuire, waving his hand enthusiastically, “we’re on the White Mail. Kate, do you hear? we’re going through on the White Mail to-night. Say, this is--” “Good night! Good-bye,” said the officials, for the car was going. The yard engine was giving them a kick out over the switches, and by the time the President and General Manager got to the rear platform the train was making fifteen miles an hour. The headlights of the pony shone full upon the happy faces of the bride and groom on the rear of the “Maid of Erin,” and with a hurried last good night, the two officials dropped off, one on either side.