They had long since ceased to carry passengers on the White Mail, and the engineer, who is not always consulted, wondered why they hung back so that night. This “Maid of Erin” car had a false bottom, and between the two floors there was a layer of forty-five pound steel rails, laid close together, to weight her down and make her ride easy. At Terre Haute, the engineer called the conductor: “What in thunder you got on behind there to-night, Jack?” “Private car--‘Maid of Erin.’” “Huh!” said the old driver, “I thought, way the damn thing pulled, it must be made o’ lead.” When the conductor learned at Terre Haute that the man in the private car was President McGuire, Thomas McGuire, freckled Tommy, who used to run the pump at West Silver Creek, he could scarcely wait until they pulled out before going in to see the great railroad man. When they had passed over the last switch the conductor went back. McGuire turned and glanced at the man in the bright uniform. “I beg pardon,” stammered the conductor, “I thought you were alone.” “Oh, don’t mention it, we’re railroad people--sit down. I assure you that you could not be more welcome.” “But--I was looking for Mr. McGuire--I thought he might--well, we used to work together at Silver Creek.” “Is your name Connor?” “Yes, sir.” “I thought so. Now have you been on this train since you left Indianapolis, and just now showed up?” “But, you’re not Tom--Mr. McGuire?” “Yes,--I--am--Tom Mr. McGuire,” and the President took the two hands of the sallow conductor and looked into his face. “Katie,” he said suddenly, “this is Jack Connor--little Jack that helped me detect the train robbers when we were hiding from the police. Shake hands with Mrs. McGuire, Jack, and then sit down.” * * * * * Mrs. McGuire had been sleeping for two hours. Jack had, at McGuire’s request, been telling him all his troubles. Things were going from bad to worse. The Engineers and Firemen were organized to fight, but the O. R. C., the conductors’ organization, was opposed to strikes, and he, this restless, unhappy soul, was working hard and hopefully for the formation of a colossal union of all railroad organizations, against which the soulless corporations could not prevail. “But what’s the good of all this work and worry, Jack?” “For mutual protection. For the general welfare of workingmen.” “Oh, workingmen be hanged! aren’t we all workingmen? Wait till you are President of a railroad, Jack. When your nerves are shaken and your head roars when you go to bed, and you lie awake half the night trying to work out a scheme by which you can save a few millions to the soulless corporation that is clubbing the wolf away from your door, and, incidentally, save your reputation and your job, then you will know what it is to be a workingman.” Jack smiled pathetically, and glanced about at the rich hangings and expensive furnishings.