ion or no union, strike or no strike."

"How old is that boy?" I asked.

"Eighteen; and never a kith or a kin that I know of. Bartholomew
Mullen," mused Neighbor, as the slight figure moved across the flat,
"big name--small boy. Well, Bartholomew, you'll know something more by
to-morrow night about running an engine, or a whole lot less; that's as
it happens. If he gets killed, it's your fault, Reed."

He meant that I was calling on him for men when he absolutely couldn't
produce them.

"I heard once," he went on, "about a fellow named Bartholomew being
mixed up in a massacree. But I take it he must have been an older man
than our Bartholomew--nor his other name wasn't Mullen, neither. I
disremember just what it was; but it wasn't Mullen."

"Well, don't say I want to get the boy killed, Neighbor," I protested.
"I've plenty to answer for. I'm here to run trains--when there are any
to run; that's murder enough for me. You needn't send Bartholomew out on
my account."

"Give him a slow schedule and I'll give him orders to jump early; that's
all we can do. If the strikers don't ditch him, he'll get through,
somehow."

It stuck in my crop--the idea of putting the boy on a pilot engine to
take all the dangers ahead of that particular train; but I had a good
deal else to think of besides. From the minute the silk got into the
McCloud yards we posted double guards around. About twelve o'clock that
night we held a council of war, which ended in our running the train
into the out freight-house. The result was that by morning we had a new
train made up. It consisted of fourteen refrigerator-cars loaded with
oranges, which had come in mysteriously the night before. It was
announced that the silk would be held for the present and the oranges
rushed through. Bright and early the refrigerator-train was run down to
the ice-houses and twenty men were put to work icing the oranges. At
seven o'clock McCurdy pulled in the local passenger with engine 105. Our
plan was to cancel the local and run him right out with the oranges.
When he got in he reported the 105 had sprung a tire; it knocked our
scheme into a cocked hat.

There was a lantern-jawed conference in the round-house.

"What can you do?" asked the superintendent, in desperation.

"There's only one thing I can do. Put Bartholomew Mullen on it with the
44, and put McCurdy to bed for No. 2 to-night," responded Neighbor.

We were running first in, first out; but we took car