out of him. The cowardly hounds, to jump on a man's back that way!"

"Foley," said I, "that's the first time they've tackled one of Dad
Hamilton's engineers."

"They'd never have done it if they thought there was any danger of Dad's
getting after them. They know he doesn't like the boy."

"It's an outrage; but we can't do anything. You know that. Tell McNeal
to keep away from the post-office. We'll get his mail for him."

"I told him that this morning. He's in bed, and looks pretty hard. But
he won't dodge those fellows. He claims it's a free country," grinned
Foley. "But I told him he'd get over that idea if he stuck out this
trouble."

It was three days before McNeal was able to report for work, though he
received full time just the same. Even then he wasn't fit for duty, but
he begged Neighbor for his run until he got it. The strikers were
jubilant while the boy was laid up; but just what Dad thought no one
could find out. I wanted to tell the old growler what I thought of him,
but Foley said it wouldn't do any good, and might do harm, so I held my
peace.

One might have thought that the injustice and brutality of the thing
would have roused him; but men who have repressed themselves till they
are gray-headed don't rise in a hurry to resent a wrong. Dad kept as
mute as the Sphinx. When McNeal was ready to go out the old fireman had
the 244 shining; but if the pale face of his engineer had any effect on
him, he kept it to himself.

As they rattled down the line with a long stock-train that night neither
of them referred to the break in their run. Coming back next night the
same silence hung over the cab. The only words that passed over the
boiler-head were "strickly business," as Dad would say.

At Oxford they were laid out by a Pullman special. It was three o'clock
in the morning and raining hard. Under such circumstances an hour seems
all night. At last Dad himself broke the unsupportable silence.

"He'd have waited a good bit longer if he had waited for me to talk,"
said the boy, telling Foley afterwards.

"Heard you got licked," growled Dad, after tinkering with the fire for
the twentieth time.

"I didn't get licked," retorted Georgie; "I got clubbed. I never had a
chance to fight."

"These fellows hate to see a boy come out and take a man's job. Can't
blame 'em much, neither."

"Whose job did I take?" demanded Georgie, angrily. "Was any one of
those cowards that jumped on me in the dark looking fo