Dyke's home was in Guadalajara. He lived in one of the remodelled 'dobe cottages, where his mother kept house for him. His wife had died some five years before this time, leaving him a little daughter, Sidney, to bring up as best he could. Dyke himself was a heavy built, well-looking fellow, nearly twice the weight of Presley, with great shoulders and massive, hairy arms, and a tremendous, rumbling voice.
“Hello, old man,” answered Presley, coming up to the engine. “What are you doing about here at this time of day? I thought you were on the night service this month.”
“We've changed about a bit,” answered the other. “Come up here and sit down, and get out of the sun. They've held us here to wait orders,” he explained, as Presley, after leaning his bicycle against the tender, climbed to the fireman's seat of worn green leather. “They are changing the run of one of the crack passenger engines down below, and are sending her up to Fresno. There was a smash of some kind on the Bakersfield division, and she's to hell and gone behind her time. I suppose when she comes, she'll come a-humming. It will be stand clear and an open track all the way to Fresno. They have held me here to let her go by.”
He took his pipe, an old T. D. clay, but coloured to a beautiful shiny black, from the pocket of his jumper and filled and lit it.
“Well, I don't suppose you object to being held here,” observed Presley. “Gives you a chance to visit your mother and the little girl.”
“And precisely they choose this day to go up to Sacramento,” answered Dyke. “Just my luck. Went up to visit my brother's people. By the way, my brother may come down here—locate here, I mean—and go into the hop-raising business. He's got an option on five hundred acres just back of the town here. He says there is going to be money in hops. I don't know; may be I'll go in with him.”
“Why, what's the matter with railroading?”
Dyke drew a couple of puffs on his pipe, and fixed Presley with a glance.
“There's this the matter with it,” he said; “I'm fired.”
“Fired! You!” exclaimed Presley, turning abruptly toward him. “That's what I'm telling you,” returned Dyke grimly.