for the things he
loved and worked over and into which he put his soul. And the one
word, where a thousand were due, Regan did not get. The new general
manager had the emotional instincts of a wooden Indian. Regan, toward
the end of the morning, got to talking a little less himself, that is,
aloud--inwardly he grew more eloquent than ever, cholerically so.

It was train time when they had finished, and the 1608, with old Dan
MacCaffery, half out of the cab window as usual, had just backed down
and coupled on the special, as Regan and the new general manager came
along the platform from the upper freight sheds. And Regan, for all
his inward spleen, couldn't help it, as they reached the big, powerful
racer, spick and span from the guard-plates up.

"I dunno where you'll beat that, East or West," said Regan proudly,
with a wave of his hand at the 1608. "Wish we had more of that type
out here--we could use 'em. What do you think of her, Mr.
Campbell--h'm?"

H. Herrington Campbell didn't appear to take any notice of the
masterpiece of machine design to speak of. His eyes travelled over the
engine, and fixed on Dan MacCaffery in the cab window. Dan had an old,
but spotless, suit of overalls on, spotless because Mrs. MacCaffery,
who was even then modestly sharing her husband's honors from the back
of the crowd by the ticket-office window, had made them spotless with a
good many hours' work the day before, for grease sticks hard even in a
washtub; and on old Dan's wizened face was a genial smile that would
have got an instant response from anybody--except H. Herrington
Campbell. H. Herrington Campbell didn't smile, neither did he answer
Regan's question.

"How old are you?" said he bluntly to Dan MacCaffery.

"Me?" said old Dan, taken aback for a moment. Then he laughed: "Blest
if I know, sir, it's so long since I've kept track of birthdays.
Sixty-one, I guess--no, sixty-two."

H. Herrington Campbell didn't appear to hear the old engineer's answer,
any more than he had appeared to take any notice of the 1608. He had
barely paused in his walk, and he was pulling out his watch now and
looking at it as he continued along the platform--only to glance up
again as Pete Chartrand, the senior conductor, gray-haired,
gray-bearded, but dapper as you please in his blue uniform and brass
buttons, hurried by toward the cab with the green tissue copy of the
engineer's orders in his hand.

Regan opened his mouth to say so