d Carleton. "Quite so--poor devil."

Regan, big-hearted, good-natured for all his bluntness, walked to the
front window and watched P. Walton's figure disappear slowly, and a
little haltingly, down the platform. The fat little master mechanic's
face puckered.

"We get some queer cards out here," he said. "He looks as though he'd
had a pretty hard time of it--kind of a discard in the game, I guess.
Out here to die--pleasant, what? I wonder where he came from?"

"He didn't say," said Carleton dryly.

"No," said Regan; "I dare say he didn't--none of 'em do. I wonder,
though, where he came from?"

And in this the division generally were in accord with Regan. They
didn't ask--which was outside the ethics; and P. Walton didn't
say--which was quite within his rights. But for all that, the
division, with Regan, wondered. Ordinarily, they wouldn't have paid
much attention to a new man one way or the other, but P. Walton was a
little more than just a new man--he was a man they couldn't size up.
That was the trouble. It didn't matter who any one was, or where he
came from, if they could form an opinion of him--which wasn't hard to
form in most instances--that would at all satisfactorily fill the bill.
But P. Walton didn't bear the earmarks of a hard case "wanted" East, or
show any tendency toward deep theological thought; therefore opinions
were conflicting--which wasn't satisfying.

Not that P. Walton refused to mix, or held himself aloof, or anything
of that kind; on the contrary, all hands came to know him pretty
well--as P. Walton. As a matter of cold fact, they had more chances of
knowing him than they had of knowing most new-comers; and that bothered
them a little, because, somehow, they didn't seem to make anything out
of their opportunities. As assistant clerk to the super, P. Walton was
soon a familiar enough figure in the yards, the roundhouse and the
shops, and genial enough, and pleasant enough, too; but they never got
past the pure, soft-spoken, perfect English, and the kind of firm,
determined swing to the jaw that no amount of emaciation could
eliminate. They agreed only on one thing--on the question of
therapeutics--they were unanimous on that point with Regan--P. Walton,
whatever else he was, or wasn't, was out there to die. And it kind of
looked to them as though P. Walton had through rights to the Terminal,
and not much of any limit to speak of on his permit.

Regan put the matter up to Carl