The Wreckers

As a general proposition, I don't believe much in the things called "hunches." They are badfor the digestion, and as often as not are like those patent barometers that are alwayspointing to "Set Fair" when it is raining like Noah's flood. But there are exceptions to allrules, and we certainly uncovered the biggest one of the lot-the boss and I-the night weleft Portland and the good old Pacific Coast. It was this way. We had finished the construction work on the Oregon Midland; had quit, cleaned up the offices, drawn our last pay-checks, told everybody good-by, and were on ourway to the train, when I had one of those queer little premonitory chills you hear so muchabout and knew just as well as could be that we were never going to pull through toChicago without getting a jolt of some sort. The reason-if you'll call it a reason-was that, just before we came to the railroad station, the boss walked calmly under a ladder standingin front of a new building; and besides that, it was the thirteenth day of the month, a Friday, and raining like the very mischi