with the hogs the bishop told about. His father was a Jim-dandy, that hog
chap's. Hustled around and set 'em up when he come back home. Frank, he'd
say to me 'How do you do, brother?' and he'd be wearin' a good suit o'
clothes and--no, sir, you bet!"

Lin now watched the great headlight of a freight train bearing slowly
down into Green River from the wilderness. Green River is the end of a
division, an epoch in every train's journey. Lanterns swung signals, the
great dim thing slowed to its standstill by the coal chute, its
locomotive moved away for a turn of repose, the successor backed steaming
to its place to tackle a night's work. Cars were shifted, heavily bumping
and parting.

"Hello, Lin!" A face was looking from the window of the caboose.

"Hello!" responded Mr. McLean, perceiving above his head Honey Wiggin, a
good friend of his. They had not met for three years.

"They claimed you got killed somewheres. I was sorry to hear it." Honey
offered his condolence quite sincerely.

"Bruck my leg," corrected Lin, "if that's what they meant."

"I expect that's it," said Honey. "You've had no other trouble?"

"Been boomin'," said Lin.

From the mere undertone in their voices it was plain they were good
friends, carefully hiding their pleasure at meeting.