self from the madhouse—I told you, didn't I, that some men drink because they have to?
Carleton, the super, and the men before Carleton, understood what the doctors didn't, so Lee's working for the railroad yet. Not braking—he's not fit for that, but he keeps the job they gave him—and it's kept for him—when he gets back after his spells. I—there's the foreman shouting for me. Sorry, but I'll have to go.
If you're going out on Number One she's just coming down the gorge now. Good night, sir."
I lost him in the shadows of the big mogul on the pit behind me. Then I turned and walked slowly out of the roundhouse, over the turntable, and across the tracks to the station platform. Number One's mellow chime floated down from the gorge, then the flare of the electric headlight, and the rumble of the train. And in quick, fierce tempo, the beating, drumming trucks caught up the name I had heard the foreman shout, and rang it over and over again in my ears:
"Oh-you-Lee! Charlie-Lee! Lee! Charlie-Lee-Lee!"
