ter"—the rest was a wave of his hand. Regan could wave his hand with a wealth of eloquence that was astounding.
"Quite so," agreed Carleton, with a grin. "Too bad to drag them into it, though. Both 'peds' to me, Tommy. It's a good thing for the discipline of the division that bigamy is against the law, what?"
"They'll be talking of it," said Regan reminiscently, "when you and me are on the scrap heap, Carleton."
"I guess that's right," admitted the super. "Play on, Tommy."
But it wasn't. They only talked of Coogan's wedding for about a year—no, they don't talk about it now. We'll get to that presently.
The Imperial Limited was the star run on the division—Regan gave Coogan the thirty-third degree when he gave him that—that and 505, which was the last word in machine design. And Coogan took them, took them and the schedule rights that pertained thereto, which were a clear and a clean-swept track, and day after day, up hill and down, Number One or Number Two, as the case might be, pulled into division on the dot. Coogan's stock soared—if that were possible; but not Coogan. The youngest engineer on the road and top of them all, would have been excuse enough for him to show his oats and, within decent limits, no one would have thought the worse of him for it—Coogan never turned a hair. He was still the friend of the 'bo and the man in trouble, still the Coogan that had been a wiper in the roundhouse; and yet, perhaps, not
