of the track sent a thrill of pleasure through Ralph's frame.
The young engineer had only a fleeting second or two to bestow on a little group, standing at the rear fence of a yard backing down to the tracks. His mother was there, gaily waving a handkerchief. A neighbor joined in the welcome, and half-a-dozen boys and small children with whom Ralph was a rare favorite made the air ring with enthusiastic cheers.
"Friends everywhere, lad," spoke Griscom in a kindly tone, and then, edging nearer to his prime young favorite, he half-whispered: "Keep your eye on this grouch of a Fogg."
"Why, you don't mean anything serious, Mr. Griscom?" inquired Ralph, with a quick glance at the fireman.
"Yes, I do," proclaimed the old railroader plainly. "He's got it in for you—it's the talk of the yards, and he's in just the right frame of mind to bite off his own nose to spite his face. So long."
The locomtive had slowed up for crossing signals, and Griscom got to the ground with a careless sail through the air, waved his hand, and Ralph buckled down to real work on No. 999.
He glanced at the schedule sheet and the clock. The gauges were in fine working order. There
