redder as MacDonald, exaggerating some hundred-fold, suavely rubbed it in.
"Dot Thornley iss—iss a pig!" shouted Dutchy suddenly, as the light burst in upon him.
MacDonald nodded assent, his mouth too full of doughnut to speak.
"Und I a fool iss, yess?" continued the proprietor, pounding a fat fist on the counter.
Again MacDonald nodded, smiling sweetly—and reached for another doughnut.
But this time Dutchy's fingers were firmly clasped around the cover, and he peered suspiciously through the glass at the number of doughnuts remaining, then glared at the dispatcher.
"You—you git out from here!" he said slowly, but with rising emphasis.
And MacDonald, chuckling, went.
It was not until after supper that same evening, when Number One pulled in, that Dutchy made any move toward retribution—then Dutchy cut loose. It was Taggart who got it—little Shorty Taggart, the driver of Number One, who was red-haired and an inveterate joker, and likewise a great crony of Thornley's.
The first intimation MacDonald had that anything was up was an enraged howl that, rising above the tumult of the station, reached him where he sat in the dispatcher's office. There was no mistaking the voice—it was Dutchy's. MacDonald stuck his head hastily out of the window, while Thornley, who was in the room, leaned over his shoulder.
