"You're bothering your head about something, Jim;" and draws her chair a little nearer to him.
He does not answer her immediately, but makes a pretence of eating, and presently lays his knife and fork on his plate, and pushes them away.
"Did you hear--the newspaper boys--a-calling out anything?" he asks.
"No, Jim."
"Nothing about--a accident?"
"No, Jim. Has there been one?"
"There's been--another smash-up--on our line. A lot o' people--hurt--badly. I saw some of 'em. It made me sick."
He takes the fork, and plays with it nervously. A look of apprehension flashes into Mrs. Podmore's eyes as she notices his agitation, and she asks, with white lips,
"It wasn't your doing, Jim, was it? Don't say it was your doing!"
"No, it wasn't my doing," he answers; but he evidently takes it to heart almost as much as if he had been to blame.