“I’m afraid it’s going to be a bad business,” he said.
“You don’t mean to say,” Holman burst out, “that the men are fools enough to quit just because one man with a grouch says so, do you?”
“I told you that you didn’t know the class of men out here—they’re partisan to the core—it’s bred in them. I’m not blaming you, Holman—not for a minute! As I said this morning, I’ve seen it coming for a long while—long before Williams gave up the ghost. Now it’s here, we’ll face the music, what?”
“It’s mighty good of you to say so, old man,” said Holman, slowly, “but I’ve put you in a bad hole, and it’s up to me to get you out of it. Inside of two weeks with the repair shops on strike our rolling stock won’t be able to handle the traffic.” He put on his hat and started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Carleton demanded.
“Rafferty’s not going to have this all his own way. The men have no grievance, and I don’t believe they’ll follow him out if they’re talked to right. I’m going over.”
“Not if I know it, you’re not,” said Carleton grimly. “There may be a coroner’s inquest before this affair is settled, perhaps more than one if things get nasty, but I’m hanged if I propose starting in that way this afternoon.”
“That’s all right,” Holman replied doggedly.
“Just the same, I’m—Eh? What’s up, Carleton? What’s wrong?”
Spence had bent suddenly over the key, and Carleton, with a startled exclamation, was staring at the words the dispatcher was hastily scribbling on the pad. Holman leaned over the super’s shoulder and even as he saw Carleton reach to plug in the telephone connection with the roundhouse, he read the message: “Number Two wrecked Eagle Pass. Send wrecker and medical assistance at once.” The next instant he was flying across the yard to the shops.