ut the lowering of the threatening gun saved him further explanation
at such a distance.

The light of battle had entirely died out of Mr. Moss's eyes, but it
was the brakeman's uniform, rather than his explanation, that had
inspired the white flag of peace.

The man came hastily up.

"What the----?" began the agent. But he was permitted to proceed no
further.

The angry eyes of the brakeman snapped, and his blasphemous tongue
poured out its protesting story as rapidly as his stormy feelings
could drive him. Then, with an added violence, he came to his final
charge of the agent himself.

"What in hell did you flag us for?" he cried. "You, on this bum
layout? Do you stand in with these 'hold-ups'? I tell you right here
this thing's goin' to be just as red-hot for you as I can make it.
That train was flagged _without official reason_," he went on with
rising heat. "Get me? An' you're responsible."

Having delivered himself of his threat, he assumed the hectoring air
which the moral support of his companions afforded him.

"Now, you just start right in and get busy on the wires. You can just
hammer seven sorts of hell into your instruments and call up Amberley
quick. You're goin' to put 'em wise right away. Macinaw! When I'm done
with this thing you're goin' to hate White Point wuss'n hell, an' wish
to Gawd they'd cut 'flag station' right out o' the conversation of the
whole durned American continent."

Mr. Moss had listened in a perfect daze. It was his blank acceptance
of the brakeman's hectoring which had so encouraged that individual.
But now that all had been told, and the man's harsh tones ceased to
disturb the peace of their surroundings, his mind cleared, and hot
resentment leaped to his tongue.

He sat down at his instrument and pounded the key, calling up
Amberley; and as the Morse sign clacked its metallic, broken note he
verbally replied to his accuser.

"You've talked a whole heap that sounds to me like hot air," he cried,
with bitter feeling. "Maybe you're old, so it don't amount to
anything. As for your bum freight it was late--as usual. It wasn't my
duty to pass it through till you shouted for signals. There ain't any
schedule for bum freights. When they're late it's up to them."

But for all Mr. Moss's contempt, and righteous indignation, the
brakeman's charge had had its effect. Well enough he remembered the
disjointed connecting rod, and he wondered how these "hold-ups" had
contrived it un