The storm was not long in bursting. Again there was a special meeting of the lodge; again a grievance committee waited on Mr. Plumfield, but it met a very different reception from that which had been given the former one.

“I have just one thing to tell you,” he said, when he had listened to their complaint, “and that is that Rafe Bassett will never be given a job on this road while I’m train master. He was drunk the other night, and you know it.”

“He denies it,” said the chairman of the committee. “He admits he’d had a glass or two of beer, but that ain’t a penitentiary offence.”

“Especially when a man ain’t on duty,” chimed in another.

“And he says he thought he was still suspended,” chimed in a third, “and he supposed he could do as he pleased.”

“He didn’t think anything of the sort,” said Mr. Plumfield, sharply. “The first words he said to me were that I’d had to crawfish. So he knew he’d been reinstated. But he’ll never be reinstated again.”

“Are them your last words, Mr. Plumfield?” inquired one of his auditors, ominously.

“Yes, they’re my last words,” retorted the train master, and turned to his work, while the committee filed out.

He foresaw, of course, what would happen, but he felt that to reinstate Bassett would for ever destroy discipline among the men under him. He stated the case to Mr. Schofield, and that official agreed with him that Bassett could never be reinstated, but that the matter must be fought out to a finish.

Hostilities were not long in commencing. The local lodge made a report—more or less biased—of the occurrence to the general officials of the order, and one of the latter came posthaste to the scene. A day or two later, Mr. Schofield received the following letter:

“Wadsworth, Ohio, January 16, 190-

“Mr. R. E. Schofield,

“Superintendent Ohio Division,

“P. & O. Railway.

“Dear Sir:—As a representative of the Grand Lodge of the Independent Order of Railway Engineers, I ask a conference with you at the earliest possible moment.

“Yours truly,

“H. F. Nixon,

“Special Delegate.”

Mr. Schofield answered at once, setting the conference for next day and asking both Mr. Plumfield and Allan to be present. For he desired some witnesses of the interview.

Nixon showed up promptly at the appointed time. He was a heavy-set man with a red face and big black moustache. He wore a sweeping fur overcoat, and, when he drew off his gloves, a big seal-ring with diamond settings was visible upon the little finger of his right hand. Mr. Schofield greeted him courteously, invited him to take off his overcoat and sit down, and then stepped to the door.

“Bob,” he called to his office boy, “ask Mr. Plumfield and Mr. West to step this way at once, will you?”

Nixon, who had thrown his overcoat across a chair and got out a big black cigar, paused with it halfway to his lips.

“Not calling the company for me, are you?” he asked.

“Why, yes,” said the superintendent, quietly. “You’ve come about the Bassett business, haven’t you?”

Nixon nodded.

“Well, Mr. Plumfield is the one with whom Bassett had the trouble. I thought you’d like to hear his story.”

“Oh, all right,” said Nixon, sitting down and lighting his cigar. “Only I know the story already.”

“Maybe you’ve only heard one side of it,” suggested Mr. Schofield, smiling.

“Well, maybe I have,” assented Nixon, and when Mr. Plumfield and Allan entered, he greeted them with a fair degree of cordiality.

“And now, Mr. Plumfield,” said the superintendent, when the introductions were over, “I wish you would tell Mr. Nixon exactly what happened between you and Bassett.”

So the train master told the story of his encounter with the drunken engineer, while Nixon sat back in his chair puffing his cigar meditatively, and nodding from time to time.

“You know, of course,” he said, when Mr. Plumfield had finished, “that Bassett denies he was drunk, and so do the boys who were with him. He admits that he’d had a glass or two of beer, but there’s nothing against that, is there, when a man’s off duty?”

“There’s a rule against the use of intoxicants,” replied the superintendent, slowly, “and against a man’s being impudent on duty or off.”

“And there’s no prospect of your taking Bassett back?” asked Nixon.

“Not the slightest,” answered Mr. Schofield.

“I suppose you know what that means?” inquired Nixon, blowing out a puff of smoke and gazing at it with half-closed eyes, as it floated slowly upwards.

“What does it mean?”

“It means a strike.”

“Is the brotherhood as foolish as all that?”

“The brotherhood is bound to protect the interests of all its members.”

“Even those who don’t deserve it?”

“The brotherhood must decide who’s worthy and who’s not. It can’t let outsiders do it.”

“Well, all right,” said Mr. Schofield. “It’s up to you. I guess we can get some more engineers.”

“Oh, you’ll need more than engineers,” said Nixon, easily. “You’ll need firemen and brakemen and conductors and switchmen—the whole force, in fact.”

The superintendent sat staring at his visitor, his brows knitted.

“You mean they’ll strike in sympathy?” he asked, at last.

“Exactly,” and Nixon smiled blandly.

“What kind of fools are railroad men anyhow?”

“I’ll tell you how it is,” said Nixon. “Railroad men realize that they’ve got to stand together. You remember those spell-binders who used to go around hollering ‘My country, right or wrong!’ Well, that’s our principle. Besides, the time’s ripe for a strike.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean there hasn’t been a real strike for some time an’ the boys are ready for a little excitement. You see, we’ve found a better way than strikin’, but not half so interestin’.”

“I think I know what you mean,” said Mr. Schofield, slowly.

“Yes—I guess you do. We’ve found out that we can get legislatures to pass most any law we want. It’s different from the old days, when the railroads carried the legislatures in their pockets. The pendulum’s swung the other way. Now it’s as much as a man’s life’s worth to vote for a railroad measure or against one that railroad employees ask for. So things come our way easy. Besides, that anti-pass law has hurt you bad.”

“Yes, it has,” Mr. Schofield agreed, with a grim smile.

“It was a mighty cheap and convenient way of buyin’ influence,” continued Nixon. “For a thousand or two miles of mileage, you got seven-eighths of the legislatures without further expense. They didn’t consider it takin’ a bribe. Now even money won’t do the trick. You’re up a tree.”

“Yes, we are,” agreed the superintendent, “until the pendulum swings back again. You fellows are too eager. You’re killing the goose.”

“Well, I guess we’ll get our share of the eggs,” grinned Nixon. “Have you heard of the latest?”

“The latest?”

“The caboose bill?”

“No,” said Mr. Schofield. “What’s that?”

“Well,” said Nixon, chuckling to himself, “the railroads, as you know, never waste a thought on the comfort or safety of their employees—”

“No, of course not,” agreed Mr. Schofield, ironically.

“All they think of is earnings an’ big salaries for the officers. One of the most inhuman afflictions which freight conductors and brakemen have to put up with in modern times is the caboose. Have you ever ridden in a caboose?”

“Hundreds of times!”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Nixon, grinning, “I thought I was addressin’ the legislature. I was goin’ to paint for them the torture of ridin’ in a caboose, the impossibility of sleepin’ there; how a few years of it wrecks a man’s health, and so forth.”

“I see you’re a good hand at fancy pictures,” said the superintendent, drily.

“A man has to be to hold my job,” said Nixon, with a broad grin. “But, cuttin’ all that out, the bill compels the railroads to use no caboose less’n forty feet in length. The berths must be comfortable an’ sanitary, with the sheets changed every trip. There must be all the toilet conveniences—”

“Why not compel us to hitch a Pullman to every freight train, with porter and everything complete?” inquired the superintendent.

“Oh, no,” protested Nixon, waving his hand. “We’re reasonable. We don’t want anything but our rights.”

Mr. Schofield’s face was flushed and he opened his lips for an angry retort, but thought better of it and closed them again. Then he laughed.

“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. Kill the goose. But were you serious about that strike?”

“Never more serious in my life.”

“When will it be called?”

“When I give the word,” said Nixon, “not before.”

And he cast at the superintendent a glance full of meaning.

The latter stared at him, then down at his desk, drumming with absent fingers.

“Well,” he said, at last, looking up, “don’t call it for a couple of days. I’ll have to ask instructions from headquarters.”

“All right,” agreed Nixon, rising and slipping into his coat. “Let me see—this is Wednesday. I’ll come in Friday morning at this time for your answer. How’ll that suit?”

Mr. Schofield nodded curtly, and with a bland wave of the hand to the others, Nixon went to the door and let himself out.

The superintendent gazed moodily at the closed door for a moment, then he rose and walked to the window and stared down over the yards.

“Well,” he said at last, turning back to the others, “there are three courses open.”

“Three?” repeated Mr. Plumfield, in evident surprise.

“Yes, three. In the first place, we can back down and reinstate Bassett.”

“Yes.”

“In the second place, we can refuse to do it and fight it out.”

“Yes.”

“And in the third place we can avoid either.”

“How?”

“By bribing Nixon.”

“Bribing Nixon?”

“Yes. You heard him say that there wouldn’t be any strike until he called it?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t see how he looked at me when he said it. If ever a man invited a bribe, without putting the invitation in so many words, he did. A thousand dollars would do it.”

“But you won’t offer it!” cried Allan eagerly. “You won’t do that!”

“No,” said Mr. Schofield, smiling as he looked at the flushed face. “I won’t do it. I’m going to advise a fight. But the decision doesn’t rest with me. I’ll have to go to Cincinnati in the morning and take it up with the general manager.”

“But to give a bribe—” Allan began.

“Sounds bad, doesn’t it? And yet I don’t think the general manager will waste much time thinking about the moral side of it. That’s not what he’s there for. He’s there to work for the best interests of the road. A strike is sure to cost us a good many times a thousand dollars—how many times nobody can tell till it’s over. Which is best for the road?”

Allan’s head was whirling. After all, there was truth in what Mr. Schofield said. The only question for the general manager to consider was just that—what was best for the road.

Mr. Schofield turned from the window and looked at him again.

“I tell you what,” he said, suddenly, “I’d like to have you go along. Will you?”

“Go along?”

“And hear the other side of it. It’ll do you good, and maybe it’ll do us good to have you,” he added.

“I’ll be glad to,” answered Allan, his face flushing suddenly, and hastened back to his desk to get things in shape so that he could be absent on the morrow.