would—such as it was—and it was about the last job Gilleen had thought of as a possibility. Things have a peculiar way of working themselves out sometimes, and, curiously enough, by means which, on the surface, are, more often than not, apparently trivial and inconsequent. Certainly, if Gilleen, on his way to the station that morning, had not run into Gleason, the yard-master, why then—but he did.
"Call-boys kind of scarce around your diggin's since yesterday, ain't they, Gilleen?" was Gleason's greeting.
"Yes," said Gilleen. "I'm out."
"See you're headin' for the station," remarked Gleason tentatively. "Goin' down to patch it up?"
"No!" answered Gilleen with a hard ring in his voice—the "no" was emphatic.
Gleason stared at the engineer for a minute, then took a bite from his plug, and the motion of his head might have been a nod of understanding or merely a wrench or two to free his teeth from the black-strap in which they were imbedded.
"No," said Gilleen again; "I'm not. I'm goin' down for another job."
"What kind of a job?" inquired Gleason.
"Any kind from any one that will put me on—except Regan."
Gleason thought of his choked yards—the rush had in no way overlooked him. Men, men that knew a draw-bar and a switch-handle from a hunk of cheese, were as scarce in his department as they were in any of the others.
