CHAPTER XI
ON DUTY
Ralph cut across lots on his way to the roundhouse. He was not one whit ashamed to be seen wearing a working cap and carrying a dinner pail and the bundle under his arm, but cap, pail and overalls were distressingly new and conspicuous, and he was something like a boy in his first Sunday suit and wondering if it fitted right, and how the public took it.
It was too early to meet any of his school friends, but crossing a street to take the tracks he was hailed volubly.
Ralph did not halt. His challenger was Grif Farrington, his arm linked in that of a chum whom Ralph did not know, both smoking cigarettes, and both showing the rollicking mood of young would-be sports who wished it to be believed they had been making a night of it, and thinking it smart.
"What's the uniform, Fairbanks?" cried Grif, affecting a critical stare—"going fishing? Is that a bait box?"
