“Is that th’ kid that Jack Welsh took t’ raise?”
“Yes; he lives with the Welshes. He worked in Welsh’s section-gang last year—took Dan Nolan’s place, you know.”
“Yes—I moind,” said Mickey, and went on smoking.
“How does it happen,” he demanded at last, “that he wants t’ learn t’ be a operator?”
“He’s got a job in th’ trainmaster’s office,” Jim explained. “He wants to learn the business.”
Mickey nodded, and knocking out his pipe against his boot-heel, deliberately filled it again, lighted it, and turned back to his work. Finally the tricycle was loaded and he pushed it out on the main line, ready for his trip. Jim followed him anxiously. He watched Mickey take his seat on the queer-looking machine, spit on his hands and grasp the lever; then he turned away disappointed. That line was not going to be possible, after all.
“Wait a minute,” called Mickey. “What th’ blazes are ye in such a hurry about? Do ye see that wire up there—th’ outside wire on th’ lowest cross-arm?”
“Yes,” nodded Jim, following the direction of the pointed finger.
“Well, that’s a dead one. We don’t use it no more, an’ I’m a-goin’ t’ take it down afore long. Ye kin use it, if ye want to, till then—mebbe it’ll be a month ’r two afore I git around to it.”