Carleton reached for his pipe and struck a match.
"If you could," said he, sucking at the amber mouthpiece between words, "there wouldn't be any trouble about it. For instance, the construction gangs want men to——"
"I'll go—I'll do anything," cut in P. Walton eagerly. "Just give me a chance."
"Nope!" said Carleton with a grin. "I'm not hankering to break the Sixth Commandment—know what that is?"
P. Walton licked dry lips with the tip of his tongue.
"Murder," said he. "But you might as well let it come that way as any other. I'm pretty bad here"—he jerked his thumb toward his lungs—"and I'm broke here"—he turned an empty trouser's pocket inside out.
"H'm!" observed Carleton reflectively. There was something in the other that touched his sympathy, and something apart from that that appealed to him—a sort of grim, philosophical grit in the man with the infected lungs.
"I came out," said P. Walton, looking through the window, and kind of talking to himself, "because I thought it would be healthier for me out here than back East."
"I dare say," said Carleton kindly; "but not if you start in by swinging a pick. Maybe we can find something else for you to do. Ever done any railroading?"
Walton shook his head.