And Dutchy, blowing hard, his sleeves rolled up over the fat of his arms, waddled to the center of the platform and shook a frantic fist after the retreating engineer.
“Ta fool iss no longer yet, don’d it?” he screamed, and, puffing his cheeks in and out like a whezzy injector, he turned, reentered the restaurant, and the door closed behind him with a resounding bang.
MacDonald drew in his head, and the tears were running down his cheeks as he held his sides.
Thornley groped for a chair.
“Guess Taggart was asking for a rebate,” he gasped. “It was worth pay to see him run.”
“You bet!” said MacDonald eloquently, when he could get his breath.
The door opened, and Brett, the super, came in.
“D’ye see Taggart and Dutchy, Brett?” cried Thornley.
“Yes,” said Brett, laughing. Then, more seriously: “Look here, you’d better patch it up with Dutchy. There’s no use rubbing it in too hard. MacDonald, tell Blaney to put my car on Number Two when she comes in. I’m going east to-night.”
The patching, however, was quite a different matter than talking about it.