About an hour later, however, another train arrived, and, by reason of some intervening necessity and the idle, wandering mood of the Italian, the hole was open again.  Jimmie was away behind the depot somewhere, smoking perhaps, and Rourke was, as usual, down in the hole.  This time misfortune trebled itself, however, by bringing, not the general foreman, but the supervisor himself, a grave, quiet man, of whom Rourke stood in the greatest awe.  He was so solid, so profound, so severe.  I don’t believe I ever saw him smile.  He walked up to the hole, and looking reproachfully down, said:  “Is this the way you leave your excavations, Rourke, when a train is coming?  Don’t you know better than to do a thing like that?”

“Jimmie!” shouted Rourke, leaping to the surface of the earth with a bound, “Jimmie!  Now, be Jasus, where is that bla’guard Eyetalian?  Didn’t I tell him not to l’ave this place open!” and he began shoving the planks into place himself.

Jimmie, suddenly made aware of this new catastrophe, came running as fast as his short legs would carry him, scared almost out of his wits.  He was as pale as a very dark and dirty Italian could be, and so wrought up that his facial expression changed involuntarily from moment to moment.  Rourke was in a fairly murderous mood, only he was so excited and ashamed that he could not speak.  Here was the supervisor, and here was himself, and conditions—­necessity for order, etc.—­would not permit him to kill the Italian in the former’s presence.  He could only choke and wait.  To think that he should be made a mark of like this, and that in the face of his great supervisor!  His face and neck were a beet-red, and his eyes flashed with anger.  He merely glared at his recalcitrant henchman, as much as to say, “Wait!” When this train had departed and the dignified supervisor had been carried safely out of hearing he turned on Jimmie with all the fury of a masterful and excitable temper.

“So ye’ll naht cover the hole, after me tellin’ ye naht fifteen minutes ago, will ye?” he shouted.  “Ye’ll naht cover the hole!  An’ what’ll ye be tellin’ me ye was doin’ now?”

“I carry da waut (water) for da concrete,” pleaded Jimmie weakly.

“Waut fer the concrete,” almost moaned Rourke, so great was his fury, his angry face shoved close to the Italian’s own.  “Waut fer the concrete, is it?  It’s a pity ye didn’t fall into yer waut fer the concrete, ye damned nagur, an’ drown!  Waut fer the concrete, is it, an’ me here, an’ Mr. Mills steppin’ off an’ lookin’ in on me, ye black-hearted son of a Eyetalian, ye!  I’ll waut fer the concrete ye!  I’ll crack yer blitherin’ Eyetalian skull with a pick, I will!  I’ll chuck ye in yer waut fer the concrete till ye choke, ye flat-footed, leather-headed lunatic!  I’ll tache ye to waalk aaf an’ l’ave the hole open, an’ me in it.  Now, be Jasus, get yer coat an’ get out av this.  Get—­I’m tellin’ ye!  I’ll have no more thruck with ye!  I’ll throuble no more with ye.  Ye’re no damned good.  Out with ye!  An’ niver show me yer face again!” And he made a motion as if he would grab him and rend him limb from limb.