“I can fire,” he announced with a surprising show of spirit, “an’ I got to. There’s smaller ones than me doing it.”
“What do you mean by ‘got to’?” demanded the master mechanic.
Spitzer shifted uneasily and kicked at the ground.
“Merla an’ me’s been making up for quite a while,” he stammered: “but she wouldn’t say nothing one way or the other till I got a raise.”
“Well, you got it,” said Regan.
Spitzer nodded miserably.
“Yes, an’ now she says ‘tain’t enough to get married on, an’—an’ we’ll have to wait till I get firing.”
“Good Lord!” murmured Regan, and he mopped his brow in deep perplexity. The destiny of mortals was in his hands—but so was the motive power department of the Hill Division. He could no more see Spitzer in a cab than he could see the time-honored camel passing through the eye of a needle. Then inspiration came to him.
“Look here, Spitzer,” said he, soothingly. “There ain’t any use talking about firing, and I ain’t going to let you build up any false hopes. But I’ll tell you what, you don’t need to feel glum about it. She loves you, don’t she?”
Spitzer’s lips moved.