There was a mischievous twinkle in the boy’s eye, and gore in the eye of the T. M.
The operators, bending over their keys, glanced at each other, but there were no comments. There is very little talking in the office where the despatchers work.
“Here, boy,” said the Trainmaster, handing a piece of clip to the messenger. “Take that to the yardmaster.” This order read:
“Hook the ‘Maid of Erin’ on the White Mail to-night.”
“Who gave you this message?” demanded the yardmaster.
The boy was ready to explode with fun.
“The T. M.”
“Well, you go back, sonny, and ask him if he’s off his nut, see?” The boy reached for the paper, but the man held it back. “Go and ask Mr. Gilroy to explain this to you,” said the yardmaster. “Ask him if he means the White Mail or the Night Express.”
Presently the boy came back, and, hooking his white light on his arm as he had seen passenger conductors do, he stood in the centre of the yardmaster’s office, and, having first arrested the attention of the switchmen, engineers, and firemen who were “railroading” there, read aloud:
“To the yardmaster, St. Louis, Vandalia, Terre Haute, and Indianapolis Railroad, Indianapolis:—