the Old Man's nephew; just plain Dick Holman. If I don't make good you can wash your hands of my railroad career."
"Young man," said the General Manager, severely, "don't make rash statements."
He pushed the papers on his desk irritably to one side. Then he frowned. Two years ago, when the road had dug, blasted, burrowed, and trestled its right of way through the mountains, they had built the repair shops for the maintenance of the rolling stock, and from the moment the first brass time-check had been issued the locomotive-foremanship of the Hill Division was no subject to be introduced with temerity anywhere within the precincts of the executive offices. One man after another had gone out there, and one after another they had resigned. "Hard lot to handle," Carleton, the division superintendent, had replied to the numerous requests for explanation that had been fired at him. And now Dick wanted to go. The general manager's fingers beat a tattoo on the desk and his frown deepened into a scowl. "You're a young fool," he grunted at last.
And Holman knew that he had gained his point. "That's very good of you, uncle," he cried. "I knew you'd see it my way. When may I start?"
"I guess you'll get there soon enough," his uncle answered grimly. He rose from his chair and accompanied Holman to the door. "Well, go if you want to, but remember this, young man, you're going on your own terms. When you resign from that position, you resign from the road, understand!"
