He had seen the waiting engine run out on the track and another one back in off the turntable. In a brief space of time he had learned something about the work that went on in the roundhouse.
“Well,” growled the red-haired wiper, “ther foreman ain’t round. When he’s out, I take his place. What dyer want?”
“Never mind,” said the youth. “I was looking for a job, but——”
“Hey? A job? What kind of a job?”
The wiper was astonished, as he plainly showed.
“Most any kind of a job,” was the quiet answer. “I will call when the foreman is in.”
“Well, dern my eyes!” shouted the red-headed man, bursting into a roar of coarse laughter. “Mebbe you wanted to hire out as general superintendent or president of the road, or something of that sort? Haw! haw! haw!”
“Haw! haw! haw!” roared the other wipers.
Some of the machinists stopped work and came where they could watch and listen; a crowd was collecting around the applicant for work, who began to show embarrassment, his cheeks flushing.
“Look at him, fellers!” cried the big wiper, pointing at the stranger. “He’s lookin’ fer work—here! Haw! haw! haw!”