the long ranges of timber to be used for framing the cupola, and then
asked a passing workman the way to the office. He frowned at the
wretched shanty, evidently an abandoned Belt Line section house,
which Peterson used for headquarters. Then, setting down his bag just
outside the door, he went in.

"Where's the boss?" he asked.

The occupant of the office, a clerk, looked up impatiently, and spoke
in a tone reserved to discourage seekers for work.

"He ain't here. Out on the job somewhere."

"Palatial office you've got," Bannon commented. "It would help those
windows to have 'em ploughed." He brought his bag into the office and
kicked it under a desk, then began turning over a stack of blue prints
that lay, weighted down with a coupling pin, on the table.

"I guess I can find Peterson for you if you want to see him," said
the clerk.

"Don't worry about my finding him," came from Bannon, deep in his
study of the plans. A moment later he went out.

A gang of laborers was engaged in moving the timbers back from the
railroad siding. Superintending the work was a squat little man--
Bannon could not see until near by that he was not a boy--big-headed,
big-handed, big-footed. He stood there in his shirt-sleeves, his back
to Bannon, swearing good-humoredly at the men. When he turned toward
him Bannon saw that he had that morning played an unconscious joke