The chief looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded quickly and glanced at his watch.
“You’ll do,” he said. “And you’ve only got thirty minutes. You’ll have to catch Number Sixteen.”
“All right, sir; I’ll catch it,” said Allan, and he went down the steps two at a time.
Mary Welsh was just spreading the cloth preparatory to getting supper when Allan raced up the steps leading from the street below and burst in at the door.
“Why!” cried Mary. “What ails th’ boy!”
“Hooray!” yelled Allan, and seized her and danced around with her in his arms. “I’m going to be an op-e-ra-tor!”
“Well, I’m sure,” gasped Mary, releasing herself and reaching up to push the loosened hairpins back into place, “that ain’t so wonderful. You’d ought t’ been a oppeyrator long ago! A railroad ain’t got no sense o’ gratitude!”
“There, there!” cried Allan. “The road’s all right—and I’ve got to catch Number Sixteen—and I wonder if there’s a crust of bread or a cold potato, or anything of that sort handy?”
“Crust o’ bread, indade!” snorted Mary, glancing at the clock. “You’ll have your supper. Go an’ git washed, an’ I’ll have it ready fer ye in a jiffy.”
“All right,” said Allan, “but I warn you I’ll be back in just a minute and a half.”