one P.M.
`` A job which is the equal of Regan 's in every way , only on a smaller scale , you understand ; where you will be general manager of a railroad and all the other officials to boot , including your own pay-master . Do I interest you ? '' Tim nods in respect to the big words and Mr. Craney instructs him : `` Whist ! Arrange your running time to meet me passing the yard-limit post yonder at six one P.M. '' And to make it official he scribbles a train order in his note-book for Tim to sign with his mark , as his drunken grandfather has educated him to do . Then Mr. Craney strolls away to answer the signals of the engine that there are cars to be weighed , and Tim prowling professionally past the lunch counter in the waiting room , steals a banana and a sandwich , which he has for breakfast in the shade of a pile of ties . There he watches the making up of trains , the flying switches , the flatheads scuttling along packing the journal boxes ; and far beyond he can see the machine shops with the forked tongues of blacksmiths ' forges and the blink of brasses in the roundhouse . A great groan of iron and steam and toil swells in the smoky light , and the bells call to him so that he begins prowling everywhere from end to end of the yards .