"What's his name?" asked Foley. "Is he off the Reading?"
"Claims he is; his name is McNeal—"
"McNeal?" echoed Foley, surprised. "Not Georgie McNeal?"
"I don't know what his first name is; he's nothing but a boy."
"Dark-complexioned fellow?"
"Perhaps you'd call him that; sort of soft-spoken."
"Georgie McNeal, sure's you're born. If you've got him you've got a bird. He ran opposite me between New York and Philadelphia on the limited. I want to see him, right off. If it's Georgie, you're all right."
Foley's talk went a good ways with me any time. When I told Neighbor about it he pricked up his ears. While we were debating, in rushed Foley with the young fellow—the kid—as he called him. Neighbor made another survey of the ground in short order: run a new line, as Foley would have said. The upshot of it was that McNeal was assigned to an engine straightway.
As luck would have it, Neighbor put the boy on the 244 with Dad Hamilton; and Dad proceeded at once to make what Foley termed "a great roar."
"What's the matter?" demanded Neighbor, roughly, when the old fireman complained.