So Allan was glad, on the whole, when the time came to take his leave, and as he walked homeward under the bright stars, he was forced to admit that his first evening in society had been, in a way, a failure. He resolved that he did not care for it and would not go again. Indeed, he had no chance, for Bess Heywood's friends voted him a "stick," and soon forgot all about him. Nor did that young lady herself preserve a very vivid recollection of him, for her days were filled with other duties and pleasures. Her mother's invalidism threw upon her much of the responsibility of household management, and she was just at the age when social claims are heaviest and most difficult to evade. Not that she sought to evade them, for she enjoyed social relaxation, but in the whirl of party and ball, of calling and receiving calls, the memory of that afternoon in the operator's shanty at the Junction grew faint and far away. And Allan, in the long evenings, buried himself in his books and banished resolutely whatever dreams may have arisen in his heart, with such philosophy as he possessed. He soon had other things to think about. One of the dispatchers, in a moment of carelessness, had issued contradictory orders which had resulted in a wreck. In consequence he was compelled to seek a position somewhere else, and everybody below him in the office moved up a notch. The extra dispatcher was given a regular trick, and his place in consequence became vacant. A day or two later, Allan received a message from the trainmaster ordering him to report at headquarters, and when he did so, he found that he was to be initiated into the mysteries of the dispatchers' office. "That is, if you want the job," added Mr. Schofield. Allan pondered a moment. The responsibilities of such a position frightened him. As an operator, he had only to carry out the orders sent him; but as a dispatcher it would be his duty to issue those orders. The difference was the same as that between the general of an army and the private in the ranks. The private has only to obey orders, without bothering as to their wisdom or folly; if a defeat follows, it is the general who must answer for it. So each dispatcher has under him, for eight hours every day, one hundred miles of track, and a regiment of operators and trainmen, who must obey his orders without question. That stretch of track is the battlefield, and the victory to be gained is to move over it, without accident, and on time, such passenger and freight trains as the business of the road demands. This is the problem which confronts the dispatcher every time he sits down before his desk. All this flashed through Allan's mind in that moment of reflection. And yet he did not really hesitate. He knew that the only road of advancement open to him lay through the dispatchers' office. There was no way around. If he faltered now, he must remain an operator always.