"Yards?" he queried—and blinked.
"D'y e mean it?" demanded Gilleen, taking him up short.
"Sure, I mean it."
"You're on," said Gilleen.
"Night switchman," amplified the yard-master. "You can begin to-night."
"All right, I'll be on deck," agreed Gilleen; "an' thanks, Gleason. I'm much obliged to you."
"Humph!" grunted Gleason. "'Tain't much of a stake compared with an engine, but it's yours, an' welcome."
It was quite true. Comparatively, it wasn't much of a stake, and even the first night of it was enough to throw the comparison into strong and bitter relief. If anything would have put a finishing touch on Gilleen's feelings anent the master mechanic it was that first night on yard switching, that and, of course, the nights that followed. It wasn't so much the work, though that was hard enough, and, being green, the engineer made about twice as much for himself as there was any need of, it was a not-to-be-denied tendency of his eyes to stray toward the roundhouse every time a gleaming headlight showed on the turn-table. If Gilleen had never known before how much he loved an engine he knew it in those dark hours while he swung a lantern from the roofs of a freight string, or hopped the foot-board of the switcher. Up and down the yards from dusk till dawn, to the accompaniment of the wheezing, grunting, coughing, foreshortened apology for a shunter, the clash of brake-beams, the
