importations of China silks. California
still sent her fruits, and Colorado was beginning cattle shipments. From
Wyoming came sheep, and from Oregon steers; and all these not merely in
car-loads, but in solid trains. At times we were swamped. The overland
traffic alone was enough to keep us busy; on top of it came a great
movement of grain from Nebraska that summer, and to crown our troubles a
rate war sprang up. Every man, woman, and child east of the Mississippi
appeared to have but one object in life--that was to get to California,
and to go over our road. The passenger traffic burdened our resources to
the last degree.

I was putting on new men every day then. We start them at braking on
freights; usually they work for years at that before they get a train.
But when a train-dispatcher is short on crews he must have them, and can
only press the best material within reach. Ben Buckley had not been
braking three months when I called him up one day and asked him if he
wanted a train.

"Yes, sir, I'd like one first rate. But you know I haven't been braking
very long, Mr. Reed," said he, frankly.

"How long have you been in the train service?"

I spoke brusquely, though I knew, without even looking at my
service-card just how long it was.

"Three months, Mr. Reed."

It was right to a day.

"I'll probably have to send you out on 77 this afternoon." I saw him
stiffen like a ramrod. "You know we're pretty short," I continued.

"Yes, sir."

"But do you know enough to keep your head on your shoulders and your
train on your orders?"

Ben laughed a little. "I think I do. Will there be two sections
to-day?"

"They're loading eighteen cars of stock at Ogalalla; if we get any hogs
off the Beaver there will be two big sections. I shall mark you up for
the first one, anyway, and send you out right behind the flyer. Get your
badge and your punch from Carpenter--and whatever you do, Buckley, don't
get rattled."

"No, sir; thank you, Mr. Reed."

But his "thank you" was so pleasant I couldn't altogether ignore it; I
compromised with a cough. Perfect courtesy, even in the hands of the
awkwardest boy that ever wore his trousers short, is a surprisingly
handy thing to disarm gruff people with. Ben was undeniably awkward; his
legs were too long, and his trousers decidedly out of touch with his
feet; but I turned away with the conviction that in spite of his
gawkiness there was something to the boy. That night proved it.