“Oh, I don’t want you in the morning—you’ll report at eleven at night for the third trick, east end.”
“Why,” stammered Allan, his lips trembling, “why, do you mean—”
“I mean you’re a regular dispatcher,” explained the trainmaster, briefly. “Nothing extraordinary about it at all. Mr. Heywood has been made general manager, with headquarters at Cincinnati, so we all take a step up.”
“Then you’re—”
“Yes, I’m superintendent. Look about the same, don’t I?”
Allan held out his hands.
“I’m glad,” he said. “And I know one thing—there’s not a road on earth that’s got a better one!”
The doctor looked rather grave when Allan told him he was going to work Thursday night, but really there was little danger so long as the boy was careful to avoid strain on the injured side. The plaster cast had been removed, and in its place had been substituted by a broad leather bandage, drawn so tightly about the chest as to prevent all movement of the ribs. That was to stay there until the injury was quite healed. But, aside from the discomfort of this bandage, the boy was in no pain, he had had no fever after the second day; and, despite the fiery protests of Jack and Mary, the doctor finally consented that Allan should go to work as he had promised.
“T’ think of a boy with two broke ribs in his body a-goin’ t’ work—an’ at sech a time o’ night!” fumed Mary, as she packed his lunch-basket for him. “But a railroad ain’t got no feelin’s. All it wants is t’ work a man till he’s played out an’ done fer, an’ then throw him away like an old glove.”