"Yes—at the roundhouse."
"Hold on, Fairbanks—circumstances alter cases"
"Not in this instance. Good-bye. I expect to be in working togs before night, Mr. More."
Ralph went down the tracks, leaving the agent staring studiously after him.
He had often been inside the roundhouse, but with genuine interest stood looking about him for some minutes after stepping beyond the broad entrance of that dome-like structure.
Not much was doing at that especial hour of the morning. Three "dead" locomotives stood in their stalls, all furbished up for later employment.
A lame helper was going over one, just arrived, with an oiled rag.
In the little apartment known as the "dog house," a dozen men chatted, snoozed, or were playing checkers—firemen, engineers and brakemen, waiting for their run, or off duty and killing time.
Ralph finally made for a box-like compartment built in one section of the place. A man was sweeping it out.
"Can you tell me where I will find the foreman?" he asked.
"Oh, the boss?"
