“But—I was looking for Mr. McGuire—I thought he might—well, we used to work together at Silver Creek.”
“Is your name Connor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought so. Now have you been on this train since you left Indianapolis, and just now showed up?”
“But, you’re not Tom—Mr. McGuire?”
“Yes,—I—am—Tom Mr. McGuire,” and the President took the two hands of the sallow conductor and looked into his face.
“Katie,” he said suddenly, “this is Jack Connor—little Jack that helped me detect the train robbers when we were hiding from the police. Shake hands with Mrs. McGuire, Jack, and then sit down.”
Mrs. McGuire had been sleeping for two hours. Jack had, at McGuire’s request, been telling him all his troubles. Things were going from bad to worse. The Engineers and Firemen were organized to fight, but the O. R. C., the conductors’ organization, was opposed to strikes, and he, this restless, unhappy soul, was working hard and hopefully for the formation of a colossal union of all railroad organizations, against which the soulless corporations could not prevail.
“But what’s the good of all this work and worry, Jack?”