still standing before him, and Spitzer's head was turned away, but Regan caught it, caught the two big tears that rolled slowly down the grimy cheeks. And in that moment he realized what neither he nor any other man on the Hill Division had ever realized before—that Spitzer, too, was human.
Regan coughed, choked, and cleared his throat. Here was Spitzer in a new light, but the Spitzer of years was not so readily to be consigned to the background of oblivion. Spitzer in a cab was as much an anomaly as ever, conjugal aspirations to the contrary.
"Firing?" said he, with grave consideration that he meant, by contrast, should serve as palliation for the sting of his mirth. "Firing? I'm afraid not. You're not fit for it. You're not big enough."
Spitzer dashed his hands across his eyes.
"I can fire," he announced with a surprising show of spirit, "an' I got to. There's smaller ones than me doing it."
"What do you mean by 'got to'?" demanded the master mechanic.
Spitzer shifted uneasily and kicked at the ground.
"Merla an' me's been making up for quite a while," he stammered: "but she wouldn't say nothing one way or the other till I got a raise."
"Well, you got it," said Regan.
Spitzer nodded miserably.
"Yes, an' now she says 'tain't enough to get married on, an—an' we'll have to wait till I get firing."
"Good Lord!" murmured Regan, and he mopped
