The men piled into the car, whereupon Manager Snowden unloosed
the vials of his wrath because their reports were not in. To his
tirade no one gave the slightest heed. The men went methodically
to work, writing out their reports to which they signed their
names, folded the papers, and tossed them on the manager's desk
without a word of explanation.

For a few moments there was silence in the office while the
manager was going over the reports. All at once there was
a roar.

"Pig! Come here!"

Rosie got down from the pile of paper on which he had been
sitting, taking his time about doing so, and, wearing a broad
grin, strolled to the office at the other end of the car.

"What's the trouble now?" demanded Rosie.

"Trouble? Trouble? That's the word. It's trouble all the time.
Where are your brains?"

"In my head, I suppose," grinned Rosie.

"No!" thundered the manager. "They're in your feet. All you
know how to do is to kick. You're a woodenhead; you're
no good."

Rosie accepted the tirade with a quiet smile.