"It strikes me I'm generally the first man in these days," retorted Gilleen angrily; "an' I'm sick of gettin' the short end of it. I guess I won't go out this time."
It took a breathing spell before the master mechanic could explode adequately.
"You call yourself a railroad man!" he flung out furiously. "What are you whining about? Every man's got his shoulder to the wheel and pushing without talk. We haven't got any room here for quitters. I guess that blood of yours you're so pinhead-brained proud"
Regan did not finish. With a bellow of rage the red-haired engineer went at the other like a charging bull, and the master mechanic promptly measured his length on the roundhouse floor from a wallop on the head that made him see stars.
Regan scrambled to his feet. His heart was the heart of a fighter, even if his build was not. Straight at Gilleen he flew, and the passes and lunges and jabs he made—while the engineer played on the master mechanic's paunch like a kettle-drum and delivered a second wallop on the head as a plaster for the first—are historic only for their infinitesimal coefficient of effectiveness. It is unquestionably certain that the master mechanic then and there would have proceeded to make up for some of his lost sleep, at least, if Gilleen's fireman and a wiper or two hadn't got in between the two men just when they did.
Gilleen was boiling mad.
"Well," he bawled, "got anything more to say
