But that night in the yardmaster’s office Allan heard the order discussed with freedom and much emphasis.
“We can’t deny,” said one man, “that th’ hoboes have been robbin’ th’ road right an’ left, but what kin we do? Try t’ put ’em off an’ git a bullet through us or a knife in us?”
“It’s put ’em off or git fired,” remarked another, grimly.
“The road couldn’t stand it any longer,” remarked the yardmaster. “Car after car has come into the yards here broken open and any amount of stuff missing. It’s been costing the road a pretty figure to straighten things out with the shippers.”
“The tramps get in out here at the heavy grade just east of Byers,” remarked a conductor. “Those fool despatchers load us up so heavy that we can’t make more than six or eight miles an hour up that grade,—sometimes we stick and have to double over. Well, the tramps lay for us there every night, and, while we’re crawling along, or maybe cutting the train in two to double, they pick out a likely looking car of merchandise, break it open, hunt around inside, and throw off what they want, and then drop off themselves. We don’t even know the seals are broken until we get into the yards here.”
“There’s a dozen other places on the road just as bad,” said the yardmaster.
“But how’s a feller t’ know what’s goin’ on inside a car?” queried a brakeman, sarcastically. “That’s what I’d like to be told.”
“Well,” retorted the yardmaster, “I guess the superintendent will tell you quick enough, if he ever gets you on the carpet.”
The brakeman snorted skeptically.
“I dunno,” he said. “I guess th’ whole thing’s jest a bluff, anyway.”