LITMIR.BIZ

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of his head—"a great lad; but mind ye this, Tommy Regan, there'll be trouble for me an' you an' him an' the whole av us, if you don't watch him."

      "What's the matter this time, John?"

      "Matter," said Healy, ruefully; "there's matter enough. The little cuss come blame near running 429 into the pit a while back, so he did."

      "Where is he now?" Regan asked, with a grin.

      "Devil a bit I know. I chased him out, an' he started for over by the shops. An' about an hour ago your missus come down an' said the bhoy was nowheres to be found, an' that you was to look for him."

      Regan pulled out his watch. "Six-thirty. Well," he said, "I'll go over and see if Grumpy knows anything about him. Next time the kid shows up around here, John, you give him the soft side of a tommy-bar, and send him home."

      ​Healy scratched his head. "I will," he said; "I'll do ut. He's a foine lad."

      Regan crossed the yard to the gates of the big shops. They were still unlocked, and he went through into the storekeeper's office. Grumpy was sorting the brass time-checks. He glanced up as Regan came in.

      "I suppose you're lookin' fer yer kid again," he said sourly.

      "That's what I am, Steve," Regan returned, diplomatically dispensing with the other's nickname.

      "Well, he ain't here," Grumpy announced, returning to his checks. "I've just been through the shops, an' I'd seen him if he was."

      The engineer's face clouded. "He must be somewhere about, Steve. John said he saw him come over here, and the wife was down to the roundhouse looking for him, so he didn't go home. Let's go through the shops and see if we can't find him."

      "I don't get no overtime fer chasin' lost kids," growled Grumpy.

      Nevertheless, he got up and walked through the door leading into the forge-shop, which Regan held open for him. The place was gloomy and deserted. Here and there a forge-fire, dying, still glowed dully. At the end of the room the men stopped, and Grumpy, noting Regan's growing anxiety, gave surly comfort.

      "Wouldn't likely be here, anyhow," he said. "Fitting-shop fer him; but we'll try the machine-shop first on the way through."

      The two men went forward, prying behind planers, drills, shapers, and lathes. The machines took ​grotesque shapes in the deepening twilight, and in the silence, so incongruous with the usual noisy clang and clash of his surroundings, Regan's nervousness increased.

      He hurried forward to the fitting-shop. Engines on every hand were standing over their respective pits in all stages of demolition, some on wheels, some blocked high toward the rafters, some stripped to the bare boiler-shell. Regan climbed in and out of the cabs, while Grumpy peered into the pits.

      "Aw! he ain't here," said Grumpy in disgust, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. "I told you he wasn't. He's home, mabbe, by now."

      Regan shook his head. "Bunty! Ho, Bunt-ee!" he called. And again: "Bun-tee!"

      There was no answer, and he turned to retrace his steps when Grumpy caught him by the shoulder. The big iron door of the engine before them swung slowly back on its hinges, and from the front end there emerged a diminutive pair of shoes, topped by little short socks that had once been white, but now hung in grimy folds over the tops of the boots. A pair of sturdy, but very dirty, bare legs came gradually into view as their owner propelled himself forward on his stomach. They dangled for a moment, seeking footing on the plate beneath; then a very small boy, aged four, in an erstwhile immaculate linen sailor suit, stood upright on the foot-plate. The yellow curls were tangled with engine grease and cemented with cinders and soot. Here and there in spots upon his face the skin still retained its natural color.

      ​Bunty paused for a moment after his exertions to regain his breath, then, still gripping a hammer in his small fist, he straddled the draw-bar, and slid down the pilot to the floor.

      Grumpy burst into a guffaw.

      Bunty blinked at him reprovingly, and turned to his father.

      "I's been fixin' the 'iger-'ed," he announced gravely.

      Regan surveyed his son grimly. "Fixing what?" he demanded.

      "The 'iger-'ed," Bunty repeated. Then reproachfully: "Don't oo know w'at a 'iger-'ed is?"

      "Oh," said Regan, "the nigger-head, eh? Well, I guess there's another nigger-head will get some fixing when your mother sees you, son."

      He picked the lad up in his arms, and Bunty nestled confidingly, with one arm around his father's neck. His tired little head sank down on the paternal shoulder, and before they had reached the gates Bunty was sound asleep.

      In the days that followed, Bunty found it no easy matter to elude his mother's vigilance; but that was only the beginning of his troubles. The shop gates were always shut, and the latch was beyond his reach. Once he had found them open, and had marched boldly through, to find his way barred by the only man of whom he stood in awe. Grumpy had curtly ordered him away, and Bunty had taken to his heels and run until his small body was breathless.

      The roundhouse was no better. Old John would have none of him, and Bunty marveled at the change. ​He was a railroad man, and the shops were his heritage. His soul protested vigorously at the outrage that was being heaped upon him.

      It took him some time to solve the problem, but at last he found the way. Each afternoon Bunty would trudge sturdily along the track for a quarter of a mile to the upper end of the shops, where the big, wide engine doors were always open. Here four spur-tracks ran into the erecting-shop, and Bunty found no difficulty in gaining admittance. Once safe among the fitting-gang, the little Super, as the men called him, would strut around with important air, inspecting the work with critical eyes.

      One lesson Bunty learned. Remembering his last interview with his mother, he took good care not to be locked in the shops again. So each night when the whistle blew he fell into line with the men, and, secure in their protection, would file with them past Grumpy as they handed in their time-checks. And Grumpy, unmindful of the spur-tracks, wondered how he got there, and scowled savagely.

      When Bunty was six, his father was holding down the swivel-chair in the Master Mechanic's office of the Hill Division, and Bunty's allegiance to the shops wavered. Not from any sense of disloyalty; but with his father's promotion a new world opened to Bunty, and fascinated him. It was now the yard-shunter and headquarters that engaged his attention. The years, too, brought other changes to Bunty. The curls had disappeared, and his hair was cut now like his father's. Long stockings had replaced the socks, and he wore ​real trousers; short ones, it is true, but real trousers none the less, with pockets in them.

      When school was over, he would fly up and down the yard on the stubby little engine, and Healy, doing the shunting then and forgetting past grievances, would let Bunty sit on the driver's seat. In time Bunty learned to pull the throttle, but the reversing-lever was too much for his small stature, and the intricacies of the "air" were still a little beyond him. But Healy swore he'd make a driver of him—and he did.

      The evenings at the office Bunty loved fully as well. Headquarters were not much to boast about in those days. That was before competition forced a double-track system, and the train-dispatcher, with his tissue sheets, still held undisputed sway. They called them "offices " at Big Cloud out of courtesy—just the attic floor over the station, with one room to it. The floor space each man's desk occupied was his office.

      Here Bunty would sit curled up in his father's chair and listen to the men as they talked. If it was anything about a locomotive, he understood; if it was traffic or bridges or road-bed or dispatching, he would pucker his brows perplexedly and ask innumerable questions. But most of all he held Spence, the chief dispatcher, in deep reverence.

      Once, to his huge delight, Spence, holding his hand, had let him tap out an order. It is true that with the O. K. came back an inquiry as to the brand the dispatcher had been indulging in; but the sarcasm was lost on Bunty, for when Spence with a chuckle read off the reply, Bunty gravely asked if there was any ​answer. Spence shook his

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