tor.

But a medical man amongst the passengers was already jumping for Sammy
Durgan; and MacMurtrey was clawing at the master mechanic's arm,
stuttering out the tale of what had happened.

"And--and if it hadn't been for Timmy O'Toole there," stuttered
MacMurtrey, flirting away the sweat that stood out in great nervous
beads on his face, "I--it makes me sick to think what would have
happened when the tank struck Number Three. Something would have gone
into the canyon sure. Timmy O'Toole's a----"

"His name's Sammy Durgan," said Regan, kind of absently.

"I don't give a blamed hoot what his name is!" declared MacMurtrey
earnestly. "He's a man with grit from the soles up, and a head on him
to use it with. It was three-quarters of an hour ago that I sent him
down, so he must have been near the top on his way back when he saw the
tank-car coming--and he took the one chance there was--to try and beat
it to the spur here to save Number Three; and it was so close on him,
for it's a cinch he hadn't time to stop, that he had to jump for the
switch with about one chance in ten for his own life--see?"

"A blind man could see it," said Regan heavily, "but--Sammy Durgan!"
He reached uncertainly toward his hip pocket for his chewing--and then,
with sudden emotion, the big-hearted, fat, little master mechanic bent
over Sammy Durgan.

"God bless the man!" blurted out Regan. And then, to the doctor: "Will
he live?"

"Oh, yes; I think so," the doctor answered. "He's pretty badly smashed
up, though."

Sammy Durgan's lips were moving. Regan leaned close to catch the words.

"A steady job," murmured Sammy Durgan. "Never get a chance. But some
day it'll come. I'll show 'em, Maria, and Regan, and the rest of 'em!"

"You have, Sammy," said Regan, in a low, anxious voice. "It's all
right, Sammy. It's all right, old boy. Just pull around and you can
have any blamed thing you want on the Hill Division."

The doctor smiled sympathetically at Regan.

"He's delirious, you know," he explained kindly. "What he says doesn't
mean anything."

Regan looked up with a kind of a grim smile.

"Don't it?" inquired Regan softly. Then he cleared his throat, and
tugged at his scraggly brown mustache--both ends of it. "That's what I
used to think myself," said the fat little master mechanic, sort of as
though he were apostrophizing the distant peaks across the canyon, and
not as though he were talking to the doctor at all. "But I