“That’s fair enough,” said one of the men at last. “I ain’t got no kick comin’,” and he walked over toward his cot, and began to make preparations to turn in. Two or three others followed his example, and finally the whole group broke up quietly. “And _that’s_ all right,” said Stanley, with a sigh of relief. “I’m glad we got rid of that other duck. He meant trouble—an’ he means it yet. You look out for him, Mr. West.” “All right,” answered Allan, with a laugh. “I guess I can look out for myself.” “You’ll need an eye in the back of your head t’ do it,” commented Stanley. “He’s the style that hits from behind.” “Well, I’ll keep my eyes open—and you keep yours open, too.” “Trust me for that,” said the detective. “Good night, sir.” “Good-night,” said Allan and stepped out into the darkness. As his feet touched the platform outside the door he felt that it was covered with sleet, and by the glint of a distant street lamp, he could see that the sleet was still falling. He hesitated an instant, looking up and down the street. “Bad night for railroading,” he said to himself. “I guess I’d better see how things are going,” and instead of descending the steps to the street, he followed the platform around the building and started across the tracks toward his office. Jack Welsh, sitting under the platform where Reddy had left him, smoked his pipe placidly and stared out across the maze of tracks which separated him from the depot building across the yards. A sputtering arc light hung before the station, revealing the groups of figures picking their way carefully along the icy station platform. The rails gleamed white with their coating of ice, and the storm of sleet fell incessantly. Overhead Jack could hear the burdened wires creaking under their load of ice. Occasionally the yard engine came slipping along, vomiting sand on both rails in its effort to grip them, but freight was light, and after awhile, its work ended for a time, it retired to the lower yards, where it stood puffing on a siding. The east-bound flyer, Number Two, was past due, but its failure to arrive caused Jack no uneasiness, for he knew that it was impossible for any train to keep to its schedule on such a night. Occasionally he heard overhead the tramp of the guard going his rounds; far down the yards gleamed the red and yellow lamps guarding the switches; a switchman’s lantern waved from time to time. Jack, sitting cosily in his shelter, watched and understood and revelled in all this; for your old railroad man—born and bred amid these surroundings—finds his work grow more interesting, more fascinating, from year to year, until any other employment seems pale and savourless by comparison. As Welsh sat there musing, a quick step sounded on the platform over his head, and a lithe figure jumped to the ground and started across the tracks toward the offices.