t,
smith."

"I intend to," said the latter proudly.

Big John went back to his engine room regretfully. Next came Joseph
Mews, his shoulders humped, his head bobbing like a duck, for he had
this habit of nodding when he walked.

"Say, wot d'ye thinka that?" he asked. "Ain't that fine. He kin drawr
jist as good as they do in them there magazines. I see them there things
in them, now an' then. Ain't that swell? Lookit Suddsy back in there.
Eh, Suddsy, you're in right, all right. I wisht he'd make a picture o'
us out there. We're just as good as you people. Wats the matter with us,
eh?"

"Oh, he ain't goin' to be bothered makin' pitchers of you mokes,"
replied the smith jestingly. "He only draws real ones. You want to
remember that, Mews. He's gotta have good people to make sketches of.
None o' your half-class plane-drivers and jig-saw operators."

"Is that so? Is that so?" replied Joseph contemptuously, his love of
humor spurred by the slight cast upon his ability. "Well if he was
lookin' for real ones he made a mistake wen he come here. They're all up
front. You don't want to forget that, smith. They don't live in no
blacksmith's shop as I ever seen it."

"Cut it out! Cut it out!" called little Sudds from a position of vantage
near the door. "Here comes the boss," and Joseph immediately pretended
to be going to the engine room for a drink. The smith blew up his fire
as though it were necessary to heat the iron he had laid in the coals.
Jack Stix came ambling by.

"Who did that?" he asked, stopping after a single general, glance and
looking at the sketch on the wall.

"Mr. Witla, the new man," replied the smith, reverently.

"Say, that's pretty good, ain't it?" the foreman replied pleasantly. "He
did that well. He must be an artist."

"I think he is," replied the smith, cautiously. He was always eager to
curry favor with the boss. He came near to his side and looked over his
arm. "He done it here today at noon in about a half an hour."

"Say, that's pretty good now," and the foreman went on his way,
thinking.

If Eugene could do that, why was he here? It must be his run down
condition, sure enough. And he must be the friend of someone high in
authority. He had better be civil. Hitherto he had stood in suspicious
awe of Eugene, not knowing what to make of him. He could not figure out
just why he was here--a spy possibly. Now he thought that he might be
mistaken.

"Don't let him work too hard," he told Bil