“Yes—I guess you do. We’ve found out that we can get legislatures to pass most any law we want. It’s different from the old days, when the railroads carried the legislatures in their pockets. The pendulum’s swung the other way. Now it’s as much as a man’s life’s worth to vote for a railroad measure or against one that railroad employees ask for. So things come our way easy. Besides, that anti-pass law has hurt you bad.” “Yes, it has,” Mr. Schofield agreed, with a grim smile. “It was a mighty cheap and convenient way of buyin’ influence,” continued Nixon. “For a thousand or two miles of mileage, you got seven-eighths of the legislatures without further expense. They didn’t consider it takin’ a bribe. Now even money won’t do the trick. You’re up a tree.” “Yes, we are,” agreed the superintendent, “until the pendulum swings back again. You fellows are too eager. You’re killing the goose.” “Well, I guess we’ll get our share of the eggs,” grinned Nixon. “Have you heard of the latest?” “The latest?” “The caboose bill?” “No,” said Mr. Schofield. “What’s that?” “Well,” said Nixon, chuckling to himself, “the railroads, as you know, never waste a thought on the comfort or safety of their employees—” “No, of course not,” agreed Mr. Schofield, ironically. “All they think of is earnings an’ big salaries for the officers. One of the most inhuman afflictions which freight conductors and brakemen have to put up with in modern times is the caboose. Have you ever ridden in a caboose?” “Hundreds of times!” “Oh, I forgot,” said Nixon, grinning, “I thought I was addressin’ the legislature. I was goin’ to paint for them the torture of ridin’ in a caboose, the impossibility of sleepin’ there; how a few years of it wrecks a man’s health, and so forth.” “I see you’re a good hand at fancy pictures,” said the superintendent, drily. “A man has to be to hold my job,” said Nixon, with a broad grin. “But, cuttin’ all that out, the bill compels the railroads to use no caboose less’n forty feet in length. The berths must be comfortable an’ sanitary, with the sheets changed every trip. There must be all the toilet conveniences—” “Why not compel us to hitch a Pullman to every freight train, with porter and everything complete?” inquired the superintendent. “Oh, no,” protested Nixon, waving his hand. “We’re reasonable. We don’t want anything but our rights.” Mr. Schofield’s face was flushed and he opened his lips for an angry retort, but thought better of it and closed them again. Then he laughed. “All right,” he said. “Go ahead. Kill the goose. But were you serious about that strike?” “Never more serious in my life.” “When will it be called?” “When I give the word,” said Nixon, “not before.” And he cast at the superintendent a glance full of meaning. The latter stared at him, then down at his desk, drumming with absent fingers. “Well,” he said, at last, looking up, “don’t call it for a couple of days. I’ll have to ask instructions from headquarters.”