Frank could study no more that night. He walked the floor for a time, feeling that a new interest had come into his life, for somehow it seemed there was a bond between himself and the young street musicians.
His dreams that night were pleasant.
Frank’s second day in the roundhouse was almost a repetition of the first, save that he learned to assist in turning the engines upon the table, and he listened to a discussion among the wipers about the mysterious properties of the slide valve, which led him to read up on the subject as far as possible.
A week passed. By the end of that time Frank was able to clean certain parts of the engine in a manner thoroughly satisfactory, and he could see that he was making progress in knowledge.
He had also found an opportunity to make known to the young musicians that his room was next to theirs, and there was visiting back and forth.
It really seemed to the brother and sister that their fortune had turned with the meeting with Frank, for they were doing far better than they had done before.
“You must be a mascot, Mr. Merriwell,” laughed the lame boy, as they all sat together one evening.
“Please don’t call me Mr. Merriwell any more,” requested Merry. “You know my first name. Call me by that.”
“Oh, it doesn’t seem right!”
“It will please me far better.”