"I suppose that means me," said Fitzpatrick.
"I suppose it does."
"Whose engine is it?"
"Siclone Clark's."
Fitzpatrick shifted to the other leg.
"Did he say what I would be doing while this was going on?"
Something in Fitzpatrick's manner made Neighbor laugh. Other things crowded in and no more was said.
No more was thought in fact. The 313 rolled as kindly for Fitzpatrick as for Siclone, and the new engineer, a quiet fellow like Foley, only a good bit heavier, went on and off her with never a word for anybody.
One day Fitzpatrick dropped into a barber shop to get shaved. In the next chair lay Siclone Clark. Siclone got through first, and, stepping over to the table to get his hat, picked up Fitzpatrick's, by mistake, and walked out with it. He discovered his change just as Fitz got out of his chair. Siclone came back, replaced the hat on the table—it had Fitzpatrick's name pasted in the crown—took up his own hat, and, as Fitz reached for his, looked at him.
Everyone in the shop caught their breaths.