Part 2 (1/2)

”Please give me a job, Mr. Carleton,” he pleaded. ”Give me a job, won't you?”

It was only yesterday on the platform that Toddles had waylaid the super with the same demand--and about, every day before that as far back as Carleton could remember. It was hopelessly chronic. Anything convincing or appealing about it had gone long ago--Toddles said it parrot-fas.h.i.+on now. Carleton took refuge in severity.

”See here, young man,” he said grimly, ”you were brought into this office for a reprimand and not to apply for a job! You can thank your stars and Bob Donkin you haven't lost the one you've got. Now, get out!”

”I'd make good if you gave me one,” said Toddles earnestly. ”Honest, I would, Mr. Carleton.”

”Get out!” said the super, not altogether unkindly. ”I'm busy.”

Toddles swallowed a lump in his throat--but not until after his head was turned and he'd started for the door so the super couldn't see it.

Toddles swallowed the lump--and got out. He hadn't expected anything else, of course. The refusals were just as chronic as the demands.

But that didn't make each new one any easier for Toddles. It made it worse.

Toddles' heart was heavy as he stepped out into the hall, and the iron was in his soul. He was seventeen now, and it looked as though he never would get a chance--except to be a newsboy all his life. Toddles swallowed another lump. He loved railroading; it was his one ambition, his one desire. If he could ever get a chance, he'd show them! He'd show them that he wasn't a joke, just because he was small!

Toddles turned at the head of the stairs to go down, when somebody called his name.

”Here--Toddles! Come here!”

Toddles looked over his shoulder, hesitated, then marched in through the open door of the despatchers' room. Bob Donkin was alone there.

”What's your name--Toddles?” inquired Donkin, as Toddles halted before the despatcher's table.

Toddles froze instantly--hard. His fists doubled; there was a smile on Donkin's face. Then his fists slowly uncurled; the smile on Donkin's face had broadened, but there wasn't any malice in the smile.

”Christopher Hyslop Hoogan,” said Toddles, unbending.

Donkin put his hand quickly to his mouth--and coughed.

”Um-m!” said he pleasantly. ”Super hard on you this morning--Hoogan?”

And with the words Toddles' heart went out to the big despatcher: ”Hoogan”--and a man-to-man tone.

”No,” said Toddles cordially. ”Say, I thought you were on the night trick.”

”Double-s.h.i.+ft--short-handed,” replied Donkin. ”Come from New York, don't you?”

”Yes,” said Toddles.

”Mother and father down there still?”

It came quick and unexpected, and Toddles stared for a moment. Then he walked over to the window.

”I haven't got any,” he said.

There wasn't any sound for an instant, save the clicking of the instruments; then Donkin spoke again--a little gruffly:

”When are you going to quit making an a.s.s of yourself?”