Beyond the shop was the great coal chute, where the tender of an engine could be heaped high with coal in an instant by simply pulling a lever; then the big water-tanks, high in air, filled with water pumped from the river half a mile away; and last of all, the sand-house, where the sand-boxes of the engines were carefully replenished before each trip. How many lives had been saved by that simple device, which enabled the wheels to grip the track and stop the train! How many might be sacrificed if, at a critical moment, the sand-box of the engine happened to be empty! It was a startling reflection—that even upon this little cog in the great machine—this thoughtless boy, who poured the sand into the boxes—so much depended.
Bright and early Monday morning they were out again on Twenty-one. Wednesday was inspection, and they knew that up and down those two hundred miles of track hand-cars were flying back and forth, and every inch of the roadway was being examined by eyes severely critical. They found many things to do, things which Allan would never have thought of, but which appealed at once to the anxious eyes of the foreman.
About the middle of the afternoon, Welsh saw a figure emerge from a grove of trees beside the road and come slouching toward him. As it drew nearer, he recognized Dan Nolan.
“Mister Welsh,” began Nolan, quite humbly, “can’t y’ give me a place on th’ gang ag’in?”
“No,” said Jack, curtly, “I can’t. Th’ gang’s full.”
“That there kid’s no account,” protested Nolan, with a venomous glance at Allan. “I’ll take his place.”
“No, you won’t, Dan Nolan!” retorted Jack. “He’s a better man than you are, any day.”
“He is, is he?” sneered Nolan. “We’ll see about that!”
“An’ if you so much as harm a hair o’ him,” continued Jack, with clenched fists, “I’ll have it out o’ your hide, two fer one—jest keep that in mind.”
Nolan laughed mockingly, but he also took the precaution to retreat to a safe distance from Jack’s threatening fists.