"But, long as I'm here, guess I'll take hold for a turn or two, just to keep my hand in."
"Good! Need an engineer."
"I might as well earn enough for railroad fare. This brake-beaming and riding the rods isn't as soft a snap as it used to seem when I was a kid."
"Soft? Y'look like a second-hand garbage-can!"
"Thanks. Where's your resident swell?"
"Quarters. Hit up the pace—work—been goin' some." McGraw swept his fat arm around in an explanatory gesture. "Laid down a'ready."
"All right. I'm on the job. But I've got to get some sleep soon. And say, just pick out a spry kid to steer me up against the wash-house, will you?"
McGraw signed to the nearest man. "Pete—Mr. Blake, our 'Sistant
Engineer—t' my room." He turned to Blake. "Help y'self. Safety razor
'n' tub handy. Clothes in locker. You c'n wear 'em over to commissary.
Guess you c'n git into 'em."
He nodded, unaware that he had said anything humorous, and pivoted around to return to his work. Blake limped briskly away after the puzzled but silent Pete. At the bunkhouse Pete showed his charge into McGraw's room, and went to order hot water for a bath.
When he returned, Blake, with half the stubble already shorn from his lathered face, handed over a telegraph message addressed to Griffith.