de a two hours' lay-over there
before starting back for Big Cloud; and Martin Bradley spent most of it
in Kelly's place, a stone's throw from, the station. Not drinking
much, a glass or two all told, sitting most of the time staring out of
the window--not drinking much--getting the _taste_ of it that he hadn't
known for a matter of many years. Two glasses, perhaps three, that was
all--but he left Kelly's for the run back with a flask in his pocket.

It was the flask that did it, not Smithers. Smithers was frightened at
his silent fireman tippling over his shovel, good and frightened before
he got to Big Cloud, and Smithers did not understand; but Smithers, for
all that, wasn't the man to throw a mate down cold. Neither was
Bradley himself bad enough to have aroused any suspicion. It was the
flask that did it.

They made Big Cloud on the dot that morning--11.26. And in the
roundhouse, as Bradley stepped out through the gangway, his overalls
caught on the hasp of the tool-box on the tender, and the jerk sent the
flask flying into splinters on the floor--at Regan's feet.

The fat little master mechanic, on his morning round of inspection,
halted, stared in amazement at the broken glass and trickling beverage,
got a whiff of the raw spirit, and blinked at Bradley, who, by this
time, had reached the ground.

"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Regan, nonplussed. "Not you,
Bradley--on the run?"

Bradley did not answer. He was regarding the master mechanic with a
half smile--not a pleasant one--more a defiant curl of his lips.

Smithers, discreetly attempting to make his escape through the opposite
gangway, caught Regan's attention.

"Here, you, Smithers," Regan called peremptorily, "come----"

Then Bradley spoke, cutting in roughly.

"Leave Smithers out of it," he said.

Regan stared for another moment; then took a quick step forward, close
up to Bradley--and got the fireman's breath.

Bradley shoved him away insolently.

It was a minute before Regan spoke. He liked Bradley and always had;
but from the soles of his feet up to the crown of his head, Regan,
first and last, was a railroad man. And Regan knew but one creed.
Other men might drink and play the fool and be forgiven and trusted
again, a wiper, a shop hand, a brakeman, perhaps, or any one of the
train crew, but a man in the cab of an engine--_never_. Reasons,
excuses, contributory causes, counted not at all--they were not asked
for--they d