"Well," inquired Carleton, "what do you make of the running orders, Tommy?"
"The devil and all his works!"—it came away from Regan now with a rush from his overburdened soul. "D'ye mean to say that—that"—Regan choked a little—"that I'm responsible for that brick-topped, monkey-faced kid?"
"'Until he come of age,'" Carleton amplified pleasantly.
Regan's Celtic temper rose.
"I'll see him hung first!" he roared suddenly. "'Twas no more than to please Maguire that I stood up with the ugly imp! And mabbe I said what's here and mabbe I didn't, but in any event 'tis no more than a matter of form to be repeated parrot-fashion—and it means nothing."
"Oh, well," said the super slyly, "if you feel that way about it, don't let it bother you."
"It will not bother me!" said Regan defiantly, with a scowl.
But it did.
Regan slept that night with an army corps of red-headed, pocked, and freckled-faced little devils to plague his rest—and their name was Noodles. His thoughts were unpleasantly more on Noodles than his razor when he shaved the next morning, and the result was an unsightly gash across his chin—and when he made his first inspection of the roundhouse an hour later he was in a temper to be envied by no man. His irritability was not soothed by the sight of Maguire, who rose suddenly in front of him from an engine pit as he came in.
"Regan," said the old fellow, "about the bhoy——"