caboose. "Yez are in charge av the work, me son. See to ut. I trust ye."
As the work at the moment was entirely at a standstill and bid fair to remain so until McCann's return on the morrow, this was very good of McCann. But all men like words of appreciation, most of them whether they deserve them or not, so Shanley went back into the box-car out of the rain to ponder over the tribute McCann had paid him, and to ponder, too, over the new responsibility that had fallen to his lot.
He did not ponder very long; indeed, the freight that was transporting McCann could hardly have been out of sight over the summit of the grade, when a knock at the door was followed by the entrance of the dripping figure of the padrone.
Shanley looked up anxiously.
"Hello, Pietro," he said nervously, for the weather wasn't the kind that would bring a man out for nothing, and he was keenly alive to that new responsibility. "Hello, Pietro," he repeated. "Anything wrong?"
Pietro grinned amiably, shook his head, unbuttoned his coat, and held out—a bottle.
Shanley stared in amazement, and then began to blink furiously.
"Here!" said he. "What's this?"
"Chianti," said Pietro, grinning harder than ever.
"Key-aunty." Shanley screwed up his face. "What the devil is key-aunty?"
"Ver' good wine from Italia," said the beaming padrone.
