"Not a bit of it. It's my dinner pail, and I'm going to work, at the roundhouse."
"Chump!"
"Oh, I guess not."
"Double-distilled! Make more money going on the circuit with the club. Personally guarantee you ten dollars a week. Got scads of money, me and the old man. Sorry," commented Grif in a solemn manner, as Ralph continued on his way unheeding. "Poor, but knows how to bat. Pity to see a fellow go wrong that way, eh?" he asked his companion.
Ralph laughed to himself, and braced up proudly. Between idle, dissolute Grif Farrington and himself he could see no room for comparison.
Some sleepy loungers were in the dog house, and a fireman was running his engine to its stall. Ralph went over to the lame helper he had seen the day previous.
"I'm to begin work here to-day, I was told," he said. "Can you start me in?"
"I'm not the boss."
"I know that, but couldn't you show me the ropes before the others come?"
"Why, there's an empty locker for your traps," said the man. "When the foreman comes, he'll tell you what your duties are."
