They hurried back to their places, the engineer, stopping only to give his fireman a hearty grip of the hand, opened the throttle. This time they were off with a jump—lost time had to be made up, and in a moment they were singing along at a speed which seemed positively dangerous. The engine rocked back and forth, and seemed fairly to leap over the rails; the wind whistled around them; the fire roared and howled in the fire-box. Eighteen minutes later, they pulled in to the siding at Stewart, on time to the second.
Allan had had enough of riding in the cab, and, thanking the engineer, and shaking hands with the fireman, he climbed down and took his seat again in the inspection-car. But he was very tired, and soon nodded off to sleep, and it was not until the train stopped and a sudden clamour of talk arose that he started fully awake.
The men were handing in their reports to the superintendent, who, with the assistance of the train-master, was going over them rapidly to find out which section had received the most points. Zero was very bad; ten was perfection. There were no zeros on any of the seventy reports, however; and, let it be added, not many tens.
The moments passed as the train-master set down in a column under each section the number of points it had received. Then he added up the columns, the superintendent looking over his shoulder. They compared the totals for a moment, and then, with a smile, the superintendent took from his pocket a check upon which the name only was lacking, and filled it in. Then he turned to the expectant men.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I think this company has cause to be congratulated on the condition of its road-bed. A vote of seven hundred, as you know, would mean perfection, and yet, not a single section has fallen below six hundred. The highest vote for any one section is 673, and that vote is given for Section Twenty-one, of which John Welsh is foreman. Mr. Welsh, will you please come forward and get your check?” and he fluttered the paper in the air above his head.
A great burst of cheering broke forth again and again. They were generous men, these section-foremen of the Irish Brigade, and, seeing how all thought of self was forgotten, Allan’s eyes grew suddenly misty. Not a man there who seemed to feel the bitterness of the vanquished. But as Allan glanced over to Jack, who was making his way over the seats and stopping to return hand-shakes right and left, a cheer on his own account burst from the boy’s lips, and he tossed his cap wildly in the air.
“Good for ye, lad!” cried one of the men, slapping the boy on his back. “Give him a cheer! That’s right. Give him another cheer!” and Allan was lifted to the shoulders of one of the brawny men, who cried: “This is the b’y that saved Jack Welsh’s colleen, worth more than a prize to Jack Welsh! Give the b’y a cheer!”
And the men responded with a will!
A moment later and they settled down again, as they saw the superintendent was waiting for their attention.
“Welsh,” began that official, when quiet was restored, “you’re a good man, and I’m glad that you got the prize. But,” he added, looking around over the crowd, “you’re not the only good man in the Irish Brigade. The only thing I’m sorry for is that I can’t give a prize to every man here. I’m like the Dodo in ‘Alice in Wonderland’—I think you’ve all won, and that you all ought to have prizes. I want to thank you every one for your good work. I’m not overstating things a bit when I say that this division is in better shape than any other on the road. We’ve had fewer accidents, and we’ve run our trains closer to the schedule than any other—all of which is largely due to your good work. I’m proud of my Irish Brigade!”