Page:Frank Packard - On the Iron at Big Cloud.djvu/230

 "Thanks, sir," he mumbled nervously.

Tommy Regan wasn't used to being "sir" ed—the Hill Division did its business with few handles and it wasn't long on the amenities.

"Humph!" he ejaculated with a snort, and a stream of black-strap laid the dust on a good few inches of engine cinders. "You can hand any thanks you've got coming over to Mother Coogan. And say"—the master mechanic wriggled his fat forefinger under Marley's nose—"thanks are all right as far as they go, but I figure you owe her something over and above that, what?"

A faint flush came into Marley's cheeks and he darted a quick look at Regan. His eyes were on the ground and his hands had suddenly disappeared in his pockets before he answered.

"I'm going to board with her a spell," he said in a slow way, as though he was measuring every word before it was uttered.

"Are, eh?" grunted Regan, but the grunt carried a grudging note of approval. "Well, maybe that'll help some. You can report at noon, Marley, and make yourself generally handy around. I reckon you'll find enough to do."

"Thanks, sir," said Marley again, as he turned away.

Regan, leaning on the turntable push-bar in front of the roundhouse, followed with his eyes as the other crossed the tracks in the direction of the town, then he spat profoundly again.

"Queerest looking specimen that ever blew into the