Gallagher pulled the reversing lever into the back gear and sent the
failing steam whistling into the chilled cylinders with cautious little
jerks at the throttle. The box-plow came out of the clutch of its snow
vise with shrillings as of a soul in torment, and the bucking outfit
screeched coldly down over the snowy rails to the "let-up," where the
shovelers' box-car had been uncoupled.

Ford swung off to turn out the shoveling squad; and presently the
laborers, muffled to the eyes, were filing past the 206 to break a path
for the plow. Gallagher was on the running-board with his flare torch,
thawing out an injector. He marked the cheerful swing of the men and
gave credit where it was due.

"'Tis a full-grown man, that," he commented, meaning Ford. "Manny's the
wan would be huggin' the warm boiler-head these times, and shtickin' his
head out of the windy to holler, 'G'wan, boys; pitch it out lively now,
and be dommed to yez!' But Misther Foord ain't built the like o' that.
He'll be as deep in that freezin' purgatory up yander in th' drift as
the foremist wan of thim."

The Irishman's praise was not unmerited. Whatever his failings,
and he groaned under his fair human share of them, Stuart Ford had
the gift of leadership. Before he had been a month on the branch
as its "old man" and autocrat, he had won the good-will and loyalty
of the rank and file, from the office men in the headquarters to the
pick-and-shovel contingent on the sections. Even the blockade-breaking
laborers--temporary helpers as they were--stood by him manfully in the
sustained battle with the snow. Ford spared them when he could, and they
knew it.