to the boys
from the branch who asked after him he sent word that in a few days he
would be showing them how to do business on the main line.

The chance came even sooner. O'Neill went hunting the following day,
overslept, came down without supper and could not get a quiet minute
till long after midnight. Heavy stock trains crowded down over the
short line. The main line, in addition to the regular traffic, had
been pounded all night with government stores and ammunition,
westbound. From the coast a passenger special, looked for in the
afternoon, had just come into the division at Bear Dance. Garry laid
out his sheet with the precision of a campaigner, provided for
everything, and at three o'clock he gave Bud a transfer and ran down to
get a cup of coffee. Bud sat into the chair for the first time with
the responsibility of a full-fledged despatcher.

For five minutes no business confronted him, then from the extreme end
of his territory Cambridge station called for orders for an extra, fast
freight, west, Engine 81, and Bud wrote his first train order. He
ordered Extra 81 to meet Number 50, a local and accommodation, at
Sumter, and signed Morris Blood's initials with a flourish. When the
trains had gone he looked over his sheet calmly until he noticed, with
fainting horror, that he had forgotten Special 833, east, making a very
fast run and headed for Cambridge, with no orders about Extra 81.
Special 833 was the passenger train from the coast.

The sheet swam and the yellow lamp at his elbow turned green and black.
The door of the operator's room opened with a bang. Bud, trembling,
hoped it might be O'Neill, and staggered to the archway. It was only
Glover, but Glover saw the boy's face. "What's the matter?"

Bud looked back into the room he was leaving. Glover stepped through
the railing gate and caught the boy by the shoulder. "What's the
matter, my lad?"

He shook and questioned, but from the dazed operator he could get only
one word, "O'Neill," and stepping to the hall door Glover called out
"O'Neill!"

It has been said that Glover's voice would carry in a mountain storm
from side to side of the Medicine Bend yard. That night the very last
rafter in the Wickiup gables rang with his cry. He called only once,
for O'Neill came bounding up the long stairs three steps at a time.

"Look to your train sheet, Garry," said Glover, peremptorily. "This
boy is scared to death. There's trouble somewher