In such a chaotic state of affairs, track and train troubles were the rule rather than the exception, and it was a Red Butte Western boast that the fire was never drawn under the wrecking-train engine.  For the first few weeks Lidgerwood let McCloskey answer the “hurry calls” to the various scenes of disaster, but when three sections of an eastbound cattle special, ignoring the ten-minute-interval rule, were piled up in the Pinon Hills, he went out and took personal command of the track-clearers.

This happened when the joke was at flood-tide, and the men of the wrecking-crew took a ten-gallon keg of whiskey along wherewith to celebrate the first appearance of the new superintendent in character as a practical wrecking-boss.  The outcome was rather astonishing.  For one thing, Lidgerwood’s first executive act was to knock in the head of the ten-gallon celebration with a striking-hammer, before it was even spiggoted; and for another he quickly proved that he was Gridley’s equal, if not his master, in the gentle art of track-clearing; lastly, and this was the most astonishing thing of all, he demonstrated that clean linen and correct garmentings do not necessarily make for softness and effeminacy in the wearer.  Through the long day and the still longer night of toil and stress the new boss was able to endure hardship with the best man on the ground.

This was excellent, as far as it went.  But later, with the offending cattle-train crews before him for trial and punishment, Lidgerwood lost all he had gained by being too easy.

“We’ve got him chasin’ his feet,” said Tryon, one of the rule-breaking engineers, making his report to the roundhouse contingent at the close of the “sweat-box” interview.  “It’s just as I’ve been tellin’ you mugs all along, he hain’t got sand enough to fire anybody.”

Likewise Jack Benson, though from a friendlier point of view.  The “sweat-box” was Lidgerwood’s private office in the Crow’s Nest, and Benson happened to be present when the reckless trainmen were told to go and sin no more.

“I’m not running your job, Lidgerwood, and you may fire the inkstand at me if the spirit moves you to, but I’ve got to butt in.  You can’t handle the Red Desert with kid gloves on.  Those fellows needed an artistic cussing-out and a thirty-day hang-up at the very lightest.  You can’t hold ’em down with Sunday-school talk.”

Lidgerwood was frowning at his blotting-pad and pencilling idle little squares on it—­a habit which was insensibly growing upon him.

“Where would I get the two extra train-crews to fill in the thirty-day lay-off, Jack?  Had you thought of that?”

“I had only the one think, and I gave you that one,” rejoined Benson carelessly.  “I suppose it is different in your department.  When I go up against a thing like that on the sections, I fire the whole bunch and import a few more Italians.  Which reminds me, as old Dunkenfeld used to say when there wasn’t either a link or a coupling-pin anywhere within the four horizons:  what do you know about Fred Dawson, Gridley’s shop draftsman?”