“Dooley? At the switch shanty? What for?”
“The feller driving the kettle has flew the coop!” answered the excited boy. “They are all striking!”
“Not one of the engineers?” gasped Ralph.
“Aw, that feller’s a new one. He wasn’t long on the job. Been talking strike ever since he started to work here,” explained the call boy, keeping alongside of Ralph as the latter started down the wide stairs. “He is a no-good, take it from me. Dooley’s near ’bout crazy. He started to chase the feller back on the kettle with a switchbar, but the man could run too fast. Somebody’s got to take the throttle on that kettle or there won’t be no more switchin’ done in this yard to-night.”
“Why haven’t you been sent for a substitute?” the train dispatcher asked the voluble youth.
“Ain’t one on the list that ain’t done his eight-hour shift and four overtime. All but the crews for the regular runs. You wouldn’t expect me to go after old By Marks, would you, to drive that yard kettle?”
Ralph laughed shortly. He was very well aware how short the division was of engineers and firemen. The twelve-hour rule, while it was a good thing and a needed improvement, had disorganized the entire Great Northern crew system. The system had never got properly into step with the new idea.
Just why Dooley should have called him, Ralph did not guess at first. Save that he might be the only person in authority about the headquarters at this hour. Dooley never had shown much initiative as yardmaster. But he was a good worker.
He came at the young train dispatcher, swinging his arms and yelling at the top of his voice:
“What do you know about this? These—these puppy-dogs! That fried egg that run the switcher—Aw! What’s the use talkin’? He’s took it on the run. He’d better. I’d have knocked his head off if he hadn’t run twice as fast as I could with my game leg.”