“All right, Mr. West. I’d suggest that he comes along after while and asks the cook for a job. He’d better not make his first appearance with you and me.”
“That’s a good idea. You wait here, Reddy, till you’re sent for.”
“Right,” agreed Reddy, and sat down on the platform.
Stanley opened the door of the freight-house and led the way in. It was the first time Allan had seen it in its new incarnation, and it wasn’t exactly what one would call an attractive scene. Indeed, it was indescribably sordid. Some of the men had gone to bed; others were sitting around the tables playing cards or listlessly turning the leaves of the illustrated papers. The gas lights overhead flared dimly through a haze of tobacco smoke. The odour of cooking still lingered in the air, with onions striking the high note, and at one end of the room, the cook was sullenly banging the tin dishes around, as he made a pretence of washing them.
“He won’t know Reddy,” said Stanley, in an aside. “He ain’t been in town long, an’ while he was here, he never stuck his nose outside that little joint where he worked. Hello, Sam,” he added, in a voice which everyone could hear. “It looks to me like you need some help.”
“Help!” snarled the cook. “No, I don’t need no help. That’s a mistake. I’m a wonder, I am. I kin cook three meals a day fer fifty men, wash th’ dishes, make the beds, an’ do all the other work without turnin’ a hair. I don’t need no help. I’m goin’ t’ quit,” he added, in another tone.
“There’s a feller outside askin’ fer a job, an’ I just happened to think of you,” said Stanley, and strode to the door. “Here, you,” he called to Reddy. “Step in here a minute. Here he is, Sam. What do you think of him?”
“He ain’t no prize beauty,” said the cook, looking Reddy over critically; “but he looks like he could work. Anybody’s better’n nobody. I’ll try him,” and he led Reddy away and set him to work with the dishes. It was all Allan could do to keep his face straight, as he saw Reddy, with evident repugnance, tie a piece of burlap around his waist for an apron and pick up a dish-cloth.
Stanley led the way to one of the groups around the tables.
“Boys,” he said, in a voice which made all within hearing look up, “this is Mr. West, the chief dispatcher for this division. He’s in complete charge of affairs here at Wadsworth, and he’ll see that you get a square deal.”