On this particular occasion Jimmie had failed to attend to this matter.  We had been working on the platform at Williamsbridge, digging a pit for a coal-bin, when a train bearing the general foreman came along.  The latter got off at the station especially to examine the work that had been done so far.  When the train arrived there was the hole wide open with Rourke below shouting and gesticulating about something, and totally unconscious, of course, that his order had been neglected.  The general foreman, who was, by the way, I believe, an admirer of Rourke, came forward, looked down, and said quietly:  “This won’t do, Rourke.  You’ll have to keep the work covered when a train is approaching.  I’ve told you that before, you know.”

Rourke looked up, so astonished and ashamed that he should have been put in such a position before his superior that he hardly knew what to say.  I doubt if any one ever had a greater capacity for respecting his superiors, anyhow.  Instead of trying to answer, he merely choked and began to shout for Jimmie, who came running, crying, as he always did, “What’s da mat’?  What’s da mat’?”

“What’s da mat’?  What’s da mat’?” mocked Rourke, fairly seething with a marvelous Irish fury.  “What the devil do ye suppose is the mat’?  What do ye mane be waalkin’ away an’ l’avin’ the hole uncovered?  Didn’t I tell ye niver to l’ave a hole when a train’s comin’?  Didn’t I tell ye to attind to that an’ naathin’ else?  An’ now what have ye been doin’?  Be all the powers, what d’ye mane be l’avin’ it?  What else arre ye good fer?  What d’ye mane be lettin’ a thing like that happen, an’ Mr. Wilson comin’ along here, an’ the hole open?”

He was as red as a beet, purple almost, perspiring, apoplectic.  During all this tirade Mr. Wilson, a sad, dark, anaemic-looking person, troubled with acute indigestion, I fancy, stood by with an amused, kindly, and yet mock severe expression on his face.  I am sure he did not wish to be severe.

Jimmie, dumbfounded, scarcely knew what to say.  In the face of Rourke’s rage and the foreman’s presence, he did his best to remedy his error by covering the hole, at the same time stuttering something about going for a trowel.

“A trowel!” cried Rourke, glaring at him.  “A trowel, ye h’athen ginny!  What’d ye be doin’ lookin’ fer a trowel, an’ a train comin’ that close on ye it could ‘a’ knocked ye off the thrack?  An’ the hole open, an’ Mr. Wilson right here!  Is that what I told ye?  Is that what I pay ye fer?  Be all the saints!  A trowel, is it?  I’ll trowel ye!  I’ll break yer h’athen Eyetalian skull, I will.  Get thim boards on, an’ don’t let me ketch ye l’avin’ such a place as that open again.  I’ll get shut av ye, ye blitherin’ lunatic.”

When it was all over and the train bearing the general foreman had gone, Rourke quieted down, but not without many fulgurous flashes that kept the poor Italian on tenterhooks.