A Slip on a Special

Unfortunately, Bud concealed his conviction, and asked Morris Blood to
give him a chance at the Wickiup. The first time, Morris Blood only
growled; the second time he looked at the handsome boy disapprovingly.

"Want to be a despatcher, do you? What's the matter with you? Been
reading railroad stories? I'll fire any man on my division that reads
railroad stories. Don't be a chump. You're in line now for the best
station on the division."

But compliments only fanned Bud's flame, and Morris Blood, after
reasonable effort to save the boy's life, turned him over to Martin
Duffy.

Now, of all severe men on the West End, Duffy is most biting. His
smile is sickly, his hair dry, and his laugh soft.

"Despatcher, eh? Ha, ha, ha; I see, Bud. Coming down to show us how
to do business. Oh, no. I understand; that is all right. It is what
brought me here, Bud, when I was about your age and good for something.
Well, it is a snap. There is nothing in the railroad life equal to a
despatcher's trick. If you should make a mistake and get two trains
together they will only fire you. If you happen to kill a few people
they can't make anything more than manslaughter out of it--I know
that because I've seen them try to hang a despatcher for a passenger
wreck--they can't do it, Bud, don't ever believe it. In this state ten
years is the extreme limit for manslaughter, and the only complication
is that if your train should happen to burn up they might soak you an
extra ten years for arson; but a despatcher is usually handy around a
penitentiary and can get light work in the office, so that he's thrown
more with wife poisoners and embezzlers than with cutthroats and
hold-up men. Then, too, you can earn nearly as much in State's prison
as you can at your trick. A despatcher's salary is high, you
know--seventy-five, eighty, and even a hundred dollars a month.