f the Italian,
the hole was open again. Jimmie was away behind the depot somewhere,
smoking perhaps, and Rourke was, as usual, down in the hole. This time
misfortune trebled itself, however, by bringing, not the general
foreman, but the supervisor himself, a grave, quiet man, of whom Rourke
stood in the greatest awe. He was so solid, so profound, so severe. I
don't believe I ever saw him smile. He walked up to the hole, and
looking reproachfully down, said: "Is this the way you leave your
excavations, Rourke, when a train is coming? Don't you know better than
to do a thing like that?"

"Jimmie!" shouted Rourke, leaping to the surface of the earth with a
bound, "Jimmie! Now, be Jasus, where is that bla'guard Eyetalian? Didn't
I tell him not to l'ave this place open!" and he began shoving the
planks into place himself.

Jimmie, suddenly made aware of this new catastrophe, came running as
fast as his short legs would carry him, scared almost out of his wits.
He was as pale as a very dark and dirty Italian could be, and so wrought
up that his facial expression changed involuntarily from moment to
moment. Rourke was in a fairly murderous mood, only he was so excited
and ashamed that he could not speak. Here was the supervisor, and here
was himself, and conditions--necessity for order, etc.--would not permit
him to kill the Italian in the former's presence. He could only choke
and wait. To think that he should be made a mark of like this, and that
in the face of his great supervisor! His face and neck were a beet-red,
and his eyes flashed with anger. He merely glared at his recalcitrant
henchman, as much as to say, "Wait!" When this train had departed and
the dignified supervisor had been carried safely out of hearing he
turned on Jimmie with all the fury of a masterful and excitable temper.

"So ye'll naht cover the hole, after me tellin' ye naht fifteen minutes
ago, will ye?" he shouted. "Ye'll naht cover the hole! An' what'll ye be
tellin' me ye was doin' now?"

"I carry da waut (water) for da concrete," pleaded Jimmie weakly.

"Waut fer the concrete," almost moaned Rourke, so great was his fury,
his angry face shoved close to the Italian's own. "Waut fer the
concrete, is it? It's a pity ye didn't fall into yer waut fer the
concrete, ye damned nagur, an' drown! Waut fer the concrete, is it, an'
me here, an' Mr. Mills steppin' off an' lookin' in on me, ye
black-hearted son of a Eyetalian, ye! I'll waut fer the concrete