never said. But what's the use! The division did some tall thinking over it—and Marley cried!
They picked up Pete Boileau and carried him into the station, and the contents of a fire bucket over his head opened his eyes. But it was a good fifteen minutes before he could talk, and by that time when they got over their scare and thought of Marley the baggage truck was deserted.
"What started it!" growled Boileau, repeating Carleton's inquiry. "I'm hanged if I know. I was jossing him a little—nothing to make anybody sore. I was only funning anyhow, and laughing when I said it."
"Said what?" demanded Regan, cutting in.
"Why, nothing much. He looked so queer hopping across the tracks like a monkey on a stick that I just asked him why he didn't cut out railroading and hit up a museum for a job, and then before I knew it he let out a screech and was on me like a blasted catamount."
"Serves you right," said the master mechanic gruffly. "I guess you won't nag him again, I guess you won't. And none of the other men won't neither if they've had any notion that way."
"He's a wicked little devil," snarled Boileau. "And the strength of him"—the baggage-master shivered—"he ain't human. He'll kill somebody yet, that's what he'll do!"
Pete's summing up was a popular one—the men promptly ticketed and carded Marley as per Boileau's bill of lading. There wasn't any more doubt about
