“Reddy Magraw knows all th’ ins an’ outs o’ section-work, sir. He’d make a good foreman.”
Mr. Schofield made another note on the pad.
“Penlow’s also going to quit on the first,” he remarked, casually, without looking up.
“Not fired, sir?” asked Jack, quickly. “I know he’s old, but he’s a mighty good man.”
“No; he resigned. Going to take the world easy. You’re to take his place.”
For a moment, Jack seemed not to understand. Then his face turned very red; a profuse perspiration broke out across his forehead. He mopped it away with his big red handkerchief, and I dare say, dabbed his eyes once or twice, for his first thought was of Mary’s joy when she should hear the news.
“Ye could find a better man fer it, Mr. Schofield,” he said, at last.
“No, I couldn’t,” retorted the trainmaster; “not if I searched this division from end to end. You’re the best section-foreman we’ve got, Welsh, and you’ll make the best roadmaster we’ve ever had. And I may add that I’m mighty glad of the chance to give you a promotion which you richly deserve. There isn’t a man in the employ of this road—no, not from the superintendent down—who has done more for it than you have. The road never forgets such services.”
The dispatchers had come crowding to the door, and in the corridor outside a group of trainmen had stopped, attracted by this unusual orating. And when the trainmaster stopped and wrung Welsh’s hand, there was a little burst of applause, for every man on the road knew and liked Jack Welsh. This public commendation completed his confusion, and he stumbled from the room and down the stairs, looking as though he had received a whipping. It was some time before he could gather courage to go home; and when he finally got there, he found the news had preceded him. Reddy Magraw had heard it and had rushed over to congratulate him—so Mary was waiting for him, her eyes alight, and she hugged him and kissed him and made much of him.