“Mist’ Hopkins wants you, Mist’ Fairbanks. Just told me. Right now.”
“Wants me?” queried Ralph, in more surprise than apprehension. “The super?”
“Yep. Bet you he’s got some new way for you to run the trains. Two on the same track, mebbe, to save wear on the iron,” and the saucy youngster went away, chuckling.
That is the way the entire force was considering the supervisor. Not even the callboys had proper respect for the bothersome official.
Ralph hesitated a little before responding to the request of Mr. Hopkins. Hopkins had absolutely no authority over the train dispatcher’s department. In fact, the divisional officers took orders, to a degree, from the train dispatchers. For that department “lapped over” onto the main and other divisions of the Great Northern. Ralph had to handle trains to and from the other divisions of the system.
So he hesitated about answering the call to Mr. Hopkins’ office. Any other man in Hopkins’ place would have come to Ralph’s room and said his little say, whatever it was. The day when a supervisor could call a train dispatcher to account was long since past in railroading.
Ralph looked over what was being done in his outer office before descending the flight to the supervisor’s room. It was at the busiest time of the day and the young chief dispatcher kept his eye constantly on what was going on during every afternoon. He had his best men on duty at night.
Hopkins was drumming impatiently on his desk with a pencil when Ralph entered. The latter secretly wished to tell him that that drumming was “waste energy.” But the supervisor’s face did not encourage any expression of humor.
“I have been waiting for you, Mr. Fairbanks,” he said sharply.
Ralph wanted to tell him the nearest way to get to his office, but he hit it back, and waited.