Scientific Sprague

CONNOLLY, off-trick division despatcher, doubling on the early night trick for Jenner, whose baby was sick, snapped his key-switch at the close of a rapid fire of orders sent to straighten out a freight-train tangle on the Magdalene district, sat back in his chair, and reached for his corn-cob pipe with a fat man’s sigh of relief.

Over in the corner of the bare, dingy office, Bolton, night man on the car-record wire, was rattling away at his type-writer; and on the wall opposite the despatcher’s table the electrically timed standard clock was ticking off the minutes between eight-fifty-five and nine. While Connolly was striking a match to light his pipe, Bolton tore the type-written sheet out of his machine and twisted himself in his chair to ask a question.

“What’s the good word from the Apache Limited?” he inquired, his evil little eyes blinking indecently. And then, before Connolly could reply: “It’s up to me to ‘buy’ for the boys to-night. My little girl-doll is comin’ on the Apache. Whadda you know about that: chasin’ me all the way from little old New York.”

The fat despatcher knew precisely where the Limited was, but he glanced at his train-sheet from sheer force of habit.

“On time at Angels, double-heading with the Nine-thirteen, and the Six-five,” he said. Then he shifted over to the car-record man’s cause for jubilation. “I didn’t know you were a married man, Bolton. If I ever get out of the woods and make good on the job, I’m going to do it myself.”

Bolton’s mouth widened like a split in a parchment mask, and his laugh was a dry cackle.

“Married--that’s a bully good joke. I’ll have to tell it to the little doll-girl, when she comes.”

Connolly was Irish chiefly by virtue of his name. He entirely missed the pointing of the car-record man’s remark, but the apparent gibe touched his vanity and his round and naturally ruddy face grew a shade darker.

“Meaning that no girl with half a chance at other fellows would look twice at a fat slouch like me? That’s where you’re off your trolley. There is one, Barry, and she’s pretty enough to make a wooden-Indian cigar-sign get down from his block and chase her up the street for another look-in. But I’ve got to make good and pull down a wad, first.”

The car-record man’s laugh this time was an unchaste sneer.

“Aw, chuck it!” he derided. “Whadda you want to tie yourself up for when there’s plenty of----”

“Say, that’ll do,” Connolly broke in, with a frown of cleanly disgust, taking Bolton’s meaning at last. Then he changed the subject abruptly. “Mr. Maxwell’s got him a new chum: seen him?”

Bolton nodded.

“Sure, I have; couldn’t help seein’ him if you happened to look his way. What is he?--champion All-America heavy-weight?”

The despatcher shook his head. “College professor, somebody said; one of Mr. Maxwell’s classmates. Specializes in something or other; I didn’t hear what.”

Again the tag-wire operator’s laugh crackled like a snapping of dry twigs. He had risen from his chair and was half-sitting, half-leaning, upon his table-desk, his hands resting palms down, with the fingers curled under the table edge--his characteristic loafing attitude.

“He might specialize in any old thing,” he jeered, with a small man’s bickering hostility for a big one in his tone. “All he’s got to do is to reach out and take it; nobody but a fellow in the Joe Gans class’d have the nerve to tell him not to. I saw him sittin’ on the Topaz porch with the super as I came over. He’s so big it made me sick at my stomach to look at him.”