"But the indicator's wrong?"
"That's the repair gang's business—and the wind. The Great Northern don't own the wind, so I reckon it will have to pocket the loss gracefully."
Bardon bit his lips.
"We've saved the junkmen a job as it is," said the freight engineer. "The switch was set for track C. You'd have had a pretty bill if you'd smashed that twenty-thousand dollar show car yonder."
"That's right—the switch was C open," declared the switchman.
"Then who changed it?" demanded Bardon, scenting a chance yet to exploit his meddling, nosing qualifications.
Ralph hesitated. He doubted if Bardon was the proper party to whom to report. He, however, simplified the situation by saying:
"I did it, sir."
"Eh? Why—you!" exclaimed the inspector, turning on him with a malevolent scowl.
"What did you change it for?"
The freight engineer gave a derisive guffaw.
"To save the show car, of course!" he said quickly. "The company owes you about nine-teen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dol-