"Where's the smart-Aleck that did that!" roared the foreman.
He was fairly distracted with the accumulating disturbances of the hour.
"Dunno. Got scared at hearing the steam hiss, I guess, and run for it," said Ike.
Tim Forgan paced up and down the planks, a smoldering volcano of wrath.
"There he is now," piped Ike, hugging himself with delight, as he considered that he had turned the tables on Ralph.
The foreman dashed towards the entrance of the roundhouse. Sure enough, Ralph had come into view.
Half a dozen persons were straggling after him, and some unusual commotion was evidently rife among them, but the infuriated roundhouse foreman at the moment had eyes only for the object of his rage.
Ralph's face was as white as chalk, he was out of breath, one arm of his jacket was torn away, and from the elbow to the finger tips there was a long, bleeding scratch.
The foreman ran up to him, and almost jerked him off his feet as he caught him by the arm.
"You young blunderer!" he roared—"look at your work! Five hundred dollars damage!"
Ralph seemed in an uncomprehending daze,
