“Allan West,” answered the other, speaking with evident difficulty.
The superintendent stopped for an instant, then went on whistling softly.
“Too bad,” he said, at last. “Have you asked him anything about it?”
“No; he seemed all unstrung. But he kept his head. He was reporting the accident and asking for orders when I got to the office.”
“Good; I hope he wasn’t to blame—though the setting of the train-signal at the last instant looks bad.”
“Yes,” assented Mr. Schofield, “it does.”
“Of course, I’m sorry for the boy; but if he was at fault, not even all he has done for the road can—can—”
“No,” broke in Mr. Schofield, curtly; “I know it can’t. Don’t be afraid. I’ll go to the bottom of the matter, regardless of who is hurt. I’ll fix the blame.”
The superintendent nodded without replying. Both men were more moved than they cared to show. For they were fond of the boy and had been very proud of him.
Mr. Heywood glanced at his watch, saw that it pointed to 7.18, and gave the signal to the conductor.