bad here"--he jerked his thumb toward his
lungs--"and I'm broke here"--he turned an empty trouser's pocket inside
out.

"H'm!" observed Carleton reflectively. There was something in the
other that touched his sympathy, and something apart from that that
appealed to him--a sort of grim, philosophical grit in the man with the
infected lungs.

"I came out," said P. Walton, looking through the window, and kind of
talking to himself, "because I thought it would be healthier for me out
here than back East."

"I dare say," said Carleton kindly; "but not if you start in by
swinging a pick. Maybe we can find something else for you to do. Ever
done any railroading?"

Walton shook his head.

"No," he answered. "I've always worked on books. I'm called pretty
good at figures, if you've got anything in that line."

"Clerk, eh? Well, I don't know," said Carleton slowly. "I guess,
perhaps, we can give you a chance. My own clerk's doing double shift
just at present; you might help him out temporarily. And if you're
what you say you are, we'll find something better for you before the
summer's over. Thirty dollars a month--it's not much of a stake--what
do you say?"

"It's a pretty big stake for me," said P. Walton, and his face lighted
up as he turned it upon Carleton.

"All right," said Carleton. "You'd better spend the rest of the
afternoon then in hunting up some place to stay. And here"--he dug
into his pocket and handed P. Walton two five-dollar gold pieces--"this
may come in handy till you're on your feet."

"Say," said P. Walton huskily, "I----" he stopped suddenly, as the door
opened and Regan, the master mechanic, came in.

"Never mind," smiled Carleton. "Report to Halstead in the next room
to-morrow morning at seven o'clock."

P. Walton hesitated, as though to complete his interrupted sentence,
and then, with an uncertain look at Regan, turned and walked quietly
from the room.

Regan wheeled around and stared after the retreating figure. When the
door had closed he looked inquiringly at Carleton.

"Touched you for a loan, eh?" he volunteered quizzically.

"No," said Carleton, still smiling; "a job. I gave him the money as an
advance."

"More fool you!" said the blunt little master mechanic. "Your
security's bad--he'll never live long enough to earn it. What sort of
a job?"

"Helping Halstead out to begin with," replied Carleton.

"H'm!" remarked Regan. "Poor devil."

"Yes, Tommy," sai