e strike might be well accounted beaten.

Stewart, the leader of the local contingent, together with his
followers, got after me at once. "You don't show much sense, Reed," said
he. "You fellows here are breaking your necks to get things moving, and
when this strike's over, if our boys ask for your discharge, they'll get
it. This road can't run without our engineers. We're going to beat you.
If you dare try to move this silk, we'll have your scalp when it's over.
You'll never get your silk to Zanesville, I'll promise you that. And if
you ditch it and make a million-dollar loss, you'll get let out anyway,
my buck."

"I'm here to obey orders, Stewart," said I. What was the use of more? I
felt uncomfortable; but we had determined to move the silk; there was no
more to be said.

When I went over to the round-house and told Neighbor the decision, he
said never a word; but he looked a great deal. Neighbor's task was to
supply the motive power. All that we had, uncrippled, was in the
passenger service, because passengers should be taken care of first of
all. In order to win a strike, you must have public opinion on your
side.

"Nevertheless, Neighbor," said I, after we had talked awhile, "we must
move the silk also."

Neighbor studied; then he roared at his foreman. "Send Bartholomew
Mullen here." He spoke with a decision that made me think the business
was done. I had never happened, it is true, to hear of Bartholomew
Mullen in the department of motive power; but the impression the name
gave me was of a monstrous fellow, big as Neighbor, or old man Sankey,
or Dad Hamilton. "I'll put Bartholomew ahead of it," said Neighbor
tightly.

I saw a boy walk into the office. "Mr. Garten said you wanted me, sir,"
said he, addressing the Master Mechanic.

"I do, Bartholomew," responded Neighbor.

The figure in my mind's eye shrunk in a twinkling. Then it occurred to
me that it must be this boy's father who was wanted.

"You have been begging for a chance to take out an engine, Bartholomew,"
began Neighbor coldly; and I knew it was on.

"Yes, sir."

"You want to get killed, Bartholomew."

Bartholomew smiled as if the idea was not altogether displeasing.

"How would you like to go pilot to-morrow for McCurdy? You to take the
44 and run as first Seventy-eight. McCurdy will run as second
Seventy-eight."

"I know I could run an engine all right," ventured Bartholomew, as if
Neighbor were the only one taking the chances in g