“Seniority does it,” said Ralph briefly. “It’s the men’s own fault if the dead ones get the best runs.”
“Well, believe me,” muttered Zeph, “if old By Marks heard what I heard last night you couldn’t hoist him into the cabin of that locomotive with a derrick.”
“What do you mean, Zeph?” and now Ralph Fairbanks was immensely interested in what his peculiar friend had to say.
“I tell you what, Ralph, I’ve got an idea. It’s my own idea, and it is worth somebody’s attention.”
“Let us have it,” said the dispatcher. “You have always been original, if nothing more, Zeph.”
“Many thanks, dear boy! Well, listen! This Andy McCarrey.” He stared all about, noting that the man running the lunch wagon had stepped out. “Take note I’ve heard a deal about that fellow up and down the road.”
“You’ve heard nothing good of him, I warrant,” grumbled Ralph.
“According to which side your bread is buttered on,” was the reply. “Most of these roughnecks swear by him.”
“But not the officials,” said Ralph.
“Right-o. Now, last night, as we section men stood beside the tracks down there waiting for the Midnight Flyer to pass, I heard one fellow say: ‘Andy McCarrey says “Thumbs up!”’ And his mate said right back: ‘Ye-as. And suppose Andy says “Thumbs down!” How about it?’