nd
the next thing he knows he's wavin' his lid and yellin' with the best
of 'em.

It must have stirred up some of that old football fightin' blood of
his; for he'd organized a regular cheerin' section, right there
opposite to the royal stand, and was whoopin' things up like it was
fourth down and two to go on the five-yard line, when all of a sudden
over pikes a Colonel or something from the King's staff and begins
poundin' Skid on the back gleeful.

It's a young Greek that used to be in his engineerin' class, back in
the dear old college days. He says Skid's just the man he wants to
come help him patch up the railroad that the Turks have been puttin' on
the blink as they dropped back towards headquarters. Would he? Why,
him bein' railroad construction expert of the Corrugated, this was
right in his line! Sure he would!

And when Mrs. Mallory sees him again at lunchtime he's all costumed as
a Major in the Greek army, and is about to start for the scene of
atrocities. That's Skid, all over. He wasn't breathin' out any idle
gusts, either. He not only rebuilds their bloomin' old line better'n
new, so they can rush soldiers and supplies to the front; but after the
muss is all over he springs his order book on the gover'ment and lands
such a whackin' big contract for steel rails and girders that Old
Hickory decides to work day and night shifts in two more rollin' mills.

Course, since it was Mr. Robert who helped me root for Skid in the
first place, he's tickled to death, and he tells me confidential how
they're goin' to get the directors together at a big banquet that
evenin' and have a reg'lar lovefeast, with Skid at the head of the
table.

Just now I finds Mr. Robert pumpin' him for some of the details of his
experience over there, and after I lugs in an atlas they sent me out
for, so Skid can point out something on the map, I just naturally hangs
around with my ear stretched.

"Ah, that's the place," says Skid, puttin' his finger on a dot,
"Mustapha! Well, it was about six miles east from there that we had
our worst job. Talk about messes! Those Turks may not know how to
build a decent railroad, but believe me they're stars at wrecking a
line thoroughly! At Mustapha they'd ripped up the rails, burned the
ties, and blown great holes in the roadbed with dynamite. But I soon
had a dozen grading gangs at work on that stretch, and new bridges
started, and then I pushed on alone to see what was next.

"Th