"Mr. Griscom," cried Ralph, catching on by a sort of inspiration, "let me--let me do that."
"Eh--what----"
Ralph drew the shovel from his unresisting hands.
"You can't do both," he insisted--"you can't drive and fire. Just tell me what to do."
"Can you shovel coal?"
"I can try."
"Here, not that way--" as Ralph opened the furnace door in a clumsy manner. "That's it, more--hustle, kid! That'll do. No talking, now."
Griscom sprang to the cushion. For two minutes he was absorbed, looking ahead, timing himself, reading the gauge, in a fume and sweat, like a trained greyhound eager to strike the home stretch.
Suddenly he ran his head and shoulders far past the window sill, and uttered one of his characteristic alarm yells.
"Rot the road!" he shouted. "No flags!"