He had been complaining because many of the hard-working mechanics had not seemed to do their best in handling the division trains. Back in the same harness that they wore, Ralph could appreciate their difficulties again.
“And that’s the matter with Barton Hopkins,” thought the young fellow. “He isn’t as fit as I am, for instance, to manage these men. He never was an engineer, or sprayed coal into a firebox. No, sir! He doesn’t know a thing about this end of railroading, save by theory.
“And mere theory is bound to get a man in wrong. Practise is the thing! I wonder how Hopkins will come out of this, if the strike becomes general? Why, the directors and stockholders who praise him so now will fairly crucify him if things go wrong and he is shown to be in any way at fault.”
Ralph believed thoroughly that Barton Hopkins was at fault. Every man he talked to on the run was criticizing Supervisor Hopkins.
“They’re all knocking the super. The anvil chorus on Hopkins’ past, present, and future seems to be the most popular number on the division program,” Ralph said to his two firemen.
“Should think you would join in, Fairbanks,” said one of them. “You’ve got little to thank him for.”
“There is something bigger than Barton Hopkins to consider,” replied Ralph.
“Sure! The rules of the Brotherhood,” was the quick reply.
“No! The welfare of the road. The Great Northern has supported me for some years. I mean to support it. When I can’t do so I’ll resign and get another job. But I won’t bite the hand that has fed me for so long.”
“You would not strike, then, even if the Brotherhood ordered it?” asked one of the firemen.