“Oh, nothin’ much,” replied the latter. “I’ve heard a good deal of talk to-day about that court decision on the employers’ liability act. One section-man dropped a heavy tie on another section-man—an’ the feller that was hurt sued the railroad under the law. Now the court holds that the law don’t apply, and some of the boys are sayin’ that nothin’ that helps the labourin’ man ever does apply when it gits up to the supreme court.” “Yes—I’ve heard of the case,” said Allan. “But look here, Jack—do you think the road ought to be made to pay, because one of its men injures another through carelessness? It wasn’t the road injured him. Suppose you hired two men to build a chimney and one of them let a brick fall on the other and killed him. Would you think you were to blame, or that you ought to pay damages?” “No,” said Jack. “Sure not. But somehow a case against a corporation looks different to most people.” “I know it does,” agreed Allan. “And there are a lot of people who wouldn’t steal from an individual who don’t hesitate to steal from a corporation. It’s a queer state of public morals. But who was doing the talking?” “Well,” said Jack, “most of it was done by a big fellow with a black moustache named Nixon. Somebody said he’d come on to make the road take Rafe Bassett back.” The disgust in his voice told how unfavourably he considered such a proposition. “Well, don’t you be afraid,” said Allan, “the road won’t take him back.” “I’m glad to hear it. I know Rafe Bassett—he’s low down trash—he’s always got a hammer out fer somebody. I never did understand how he got the pull he’s got with his lodge.” “Well, he’ll need a pull before he gets through this,” said Allan, “but let’s talk about something else, Jack. Oh,” he added, suddenly, “who do you think I saw in Cincinnati to-day? I had the afternoon to myself and I went out to the Art Museum—and there, painting a picture, sat Betty Heywood.” A sudden wave of colour flooded Mamie’s face, but no one saw it. “Paintin’ a picture?” repeated Mrs. Welsh. “Is she a painter?” “Yes, and a mighty good one, so far as I was able to judge, though she laughed at me and said she wasn’t. She seemed glad to see me and we took a little walk together.” He paused a moment, for there was an unaccountable difficulty, somehow, in telling what he had to tell. Mamie’s eyes were on his face, and she was deadly pale. “She told me about her work,” he went on. “She said she’d had to do something for a living, and had done well with her paintings. I should think she would.” “Had to do something for a livin’?” echoed Mrs. Welsh. “Where’s her father?” “He’s going down grade,” answered Allan, soberly, and told what he had heard of Mr. Heywood’s dissipation. “I’m mighty sorry t’ hear that,” remarked Jack, when Allan had finished. “Mr. Heywood was a good man an’ a square man. I’ve seen better superintendents—we’ve got a better one now—but, all the same, I liked Mr. Heywood.”