he was industrious and ambitious, he was glad to get at work with the prospect of a steady run.
The foreman of the roundhouse had just turned from his desk after marking Ralph's name on the list when a man hurriedly entered the place. He was rather unsteady in his gait, his face was flushed, and he looked dissolute and unreliable.
"Give me the slow freight run, Forgan," he panted. "I'm listed next."
"Two minutes late," observed the foreman, in a business-like way.
"That don't count on a stormy night like this."
"System counts in this establishment always, Jim Evans," said Mr. Forgan.
"I ran all the way."
"Stopped too long at the corner saloon, then," put in Dave Adams, a veteran engineer of the road.
Evans glared at the man who spoke, but recognizing a privileged character, stared down the row of loiterers and demanded:
"Who's got my run?"
"Do you own any particular run, Jim?" inquired Adams, with a grin.
"Well, Griscom's was due me."
"Young Fairbanks was on hand, so it's his run now."
"That kid's," sneered Evans, turning on Ralph
