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TODDLES, in the beginning, wasn’t exactly a railroad man–for several reasons. First he wasn’t a man at all; second, he wasn’t, strictly speaking, on the company’s pay roll; third, which is apparently irrelevant, everybody said he was a bad one; and fourth–because Hawkeye nicknamed him Toddles.

Toddles had another name–Christopher Hyslop Hoogan–but Big Cloud never lay awake at nights losing any sleep over that. On the first run that Christopher Hyslop Hoogan ever made, Hawkeye looked him over for a minute, said, “Toddles,” shortlike–and, shortlike, that settled the matter so far as the Hill Division was concerned. His name was Toddles.

Piecemeal, Toddles wouldn’t convey anything to you to speak of. You’d have to see Toddles coming down the aisle of a car to get him at all–and then the chances are you’d turn around after he’d gone by and stare at him, and it would be even money that you’d call him back and fish for a dime to buy something by way of excuse. Toddles got a good deal of business that way. Toddles had a uniform and a regular run all right, but he wasn’t what he passionately longed to be–a legitimate, dyed-in-the-wool railroader. His pay check, plus commissions, came from the News Company down East that had the railroad concession. Toddles was a newsboy. In his blue uniform and silver buttons, Toddles used to stack up about the height of the back of the car seats as he hawked his wares along the aisles; and the only thing that was big about him was his head, which looked as though it had got a whopping big lead on his body–and didn’t intend to let the body cut the lead down any. This meant a big cap, and, as Toddles used to tilt the vizor forward, the tip of his nose, bar his mouth which was generous, was about all one got of his face. Cap, buttons, magazines and peanuts, that was Toddles–all except his voice. Toddles had a voice that would make you jump if you were nervous the minute he opened the car door, and if you weren’t nervous you would be before he had reached the other end of the aisle–it began low down somewhere on high G and went through you shrill as an east wind, and ended like the shriek of a brake-shoe with everything the Westinghouse equipment had to offer cutting loose on a quick stop.

Hawkeye? That was what Toddles called his beady-eyed conductor in retaliation. Hawkeye used to nag Toddles every chance he got, and, being Toddles’ conductor, Hawkeye got a good many chances. In a word, Hawkeye, carrying the punch on the local passenger, that happened to be the run Toddles was given when the News Company sent him out from the East, used to think he got a good deal of fun out of Toddles–only his idea of fun and Toddles’ idea of fun were as divergent as the poles, that was all.

Toddles, however, wasn’t anybody’s fool, not by several degrees–not even Hawkeye’s. Toddles hated Hawkeye like poison; and his hate, apart from daily annoyances, was deep-seated. It was Hawkeye who had dubbed him “Toddles.” And Toddles repudiated the name with his heart, his soul–and his fists.

Toddles wasn’t anybody’s fool, whatever the division thought, and he was right down to the basic root of things from the start. Coupled with the stunted growth that nature in a miserly mood had doled out to him, none knew better than himself that the name of “Toddles,” keeping that nature stuff patently before everybody’s eyes, damned him in his aspirations for a bona fide railroad career. Other boys got a job and got their feet on the ladder as call-boys, or in the roundhouse; Toddles got–a grin. Toddles pestered everybody for a job. He pestered Carleton, the super. He pestered Tommy Regan, the master mechanic. Every time that he saw anybody in authority Toddles spoke up for a job, he was in deadly earnest–and got a grin. Toddles with a basket of unripe fruit and stale chocolates and his “best-seller” voice was one thing; but Toddles as anything else was just–Toddles.