There was no end to it. Every train brought a big batch of correspondence, which it was his duty to receive, delivering at the same time to the baggage-master other packets addressed to employees at various points along the road. The road took care of its own mail in this manner, without asking the aid of Uncle Sam, and so escaped a charge for postage which would have made a serious hole in the earnings. As soon as he had received the mail, Allan would hasten up-stairs to his desk to sort it. Always about him, echoing through the office, rose the clatter of the telegraph instruments. The trainmaster had one at his elbow, the chief-dispatcher another, and in the dispatchers' office next door three or four more were constantly chattering. It reminded Allan of nothing so much as a chorus of blackbirds. Often Mr. Schofield would pause in the midst of dictating a letter, open his key and engage in conversation with some one out on the line. And Allan realized that, after all, the pile of letters, huge as it was, represented only a small portion of the road's business--that by far the greater part of it was transacted by wire. And he determined to master the secrets of telegraphy at the earliest possible moment. It was plainly to be seen that that way, and that way only, lay promotion. He was still pondering this idea when, the day's work over, he left the office and made his way toward the little house perched high on an embankment back of the yards, where he had lived ever since he had come to Wadsworth, a year before, in search of work. Big-hearted Jack Welsh had not only given him work, but had offered him a home--and a real home the boy found it. He had grown as dear to Mary Welsh's heart as was her own little girl, Mamie, who had just attained the proud age of seven and was starting to school. Allan found her now, waiting for him at the gate, and she escorted him proudly up the path and into the house. "Well, an' how d' you like your new job?" Mary asked, as they sat down to supper. "First rate," Allan answered, and described in detail how he had spent the day. Mary sniffed contemptuously when he had finished. "I don't call that sech a foine job," she said. "Why, anybody could do that! A boy loike you deserves somethin' better! An' after what ye did fer th' road, too!" "But don't you see," Allan protested, "it isn't so much the job itself, as the chance it gives me. I'm at the bottom of the ladder, it's true, just as John Marney said; but there _is_ a ladder, and a tall one, and if I stay at the bottom it's my own fault." Jack nodded from across the table. "Right you are," he agreed. "And you'll git ahead, never fear!"