as it hurtled by with insolent disregard for every mortal thing on earth.
Maybe Gilleen got a little more of it than any one else on the throttles, maybe he did—or maybe he didn't. Gilleen thought he did anyhow, and naturally he put it own to Regan's account. Regan was head of the motive power department of the Hill Division—there was no one else to put it down to. It was Regan or imagination. Gilleen, not being strong on imagination, did not debate the question—he let it go at Regan.
In from one run, shot out on another—that was Gilleen's schedule. The little woman in the little house uptown off Main street got to be mostly a memory to Gilleen, and as for the six brick-headed scions of his kingly race he came to wonder if they really existed at all.
Things boomed and hummed on the Hill Division, and while everybody on it snarled and swore and nagged at each other, as weary, worn-out, dropping-with-fatigue men will do, the smiles broadened on the lips and spread over the faces of the directors down East, as they rubbed their palms beneficently, expectantly, scenting extra dividends and soaring stock.
It was noon one day when Gilleen, with a trailing string of slewing freights behind him, pulled into the Big Cloud yards, uncoupled, backed down the spur, crossed the 'table, and ran into the roundhouse. As he swung from the gangway, Regan came hurrying in through the engine doors of Gilleen's pit from the
